


we live, we love, we lie

by ElvisHasLeftTheBuilding



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Acceptance, Anger, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), BAMF Tony Stark, Bargaining, Ben Parker Lives, Biased Narrator, Bickering, Brief offscreen parental neglect, But he loves his son, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Canon Divergence - Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Chapter 9 is an omake, Complicated Relationships, Creepy robot cheerleaders, Denial, Depression, Domestic Bliss, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Reconciliation, Except Thanos, Extremis (Marvel), F/M, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Five Stages of Grief, Flawed characters, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Happy Tony Stark, Ho Yinsen Lives, Howard Stark is not a perfect parent, Infinity Gems, Internal Monologue, Irondad, James "Rhodey" Rhodes is a Good Bro, Loki (Marvel) Lives, Married Life, Mentor/Protégé, Mind Gem (Marvel), Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Natasha Romanov Lives, No Cap Bashing, No Natasha bashing, No Wanda bashing, No one is evil, POV Bruce Banner, POV Natasha Romanov, POV Outsider, POV Peter Parker, POV Steve Rogers, POV Tony Stark, POV Wanda Maximoff, Permanent Character Death, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Protective James "Rhodey" Rhodes, References to 2013 era avengers comics, References to 2013 era iron man comics, Robot cheerleaders, Science Bros, Slice of Life, Sokovia (Marvel), Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, Time Skips, Time Travel, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Has Trust Issues, Tony Stark is a good parent, Tony you have the weirdest ideas, Unreliable Narrator, Wanda Maximoff is not evil, and HYDRA, and when i say eventual, but it gets better, eventual angst, i mean really really really eventual, look elsewhere, pepperony endgame, spiderson, steggy endgame, stony fans looking for a happy ending, stony tag is only relevant in the last 2 chapters, that should be a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:15:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 81,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22430944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvisHasLeftTheBuilding/pseuds/ElvisHasLeftTheBuilding
Summary: 2028The air is thick with dust, hot and dry and choking. The sky is hazy, lit with a dull red glow from the overhanging sun.Tony can’t remember the last time he saw the sun not hidden behind smog. He can’t remember the last time it rained.Buildings have fallen into ruin and rubble. Collapsed transmission towers trail snapped power lines. A disintegrating bridge. Cars overturned and their metal frames twisted out of shape. Streets strewn with bricks and concrete and debris, and horribly, a handful of decomposing bodies in every street. Crushed by falling buildings or poisoned by the foul water or stampeded during the initial panic or killed by desperate survivors fighting over rations....In a future where Infinity War never happened, Thanos destroys the Earth and kills almost everyone. Tony and Pepper survive and use the infinity stones to travel back in time.
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Tony Stark, Happy Hogan & James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, Happy Hogan & Tony Stark, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, Loki & Natasha Romanov, Minor Steve Rogers/Tony Stark - Relationship, Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe) & Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark, Nick Fury & Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, Wanda Maximoff & Tony Stark, minor Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanov - Relationship, minor Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers - Relationship, minor Wanda Maximoff/Vision - Relationship
Comments: 147
Kudos: 367
Collections: ellie marvel fics - read





	1. Pepper, Morgan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own anything.
> 
> If confused, see end notes, or leave a comment.

**2028**

The air is thick with dust, hot and dry and choking. The sky is hazy, lit with a dull red glow from the overhanging sun.

Tony can’t remember the last time he saw the sun not hidden behind smog. He can’t remember the last time it rained.

Buildings have fallen into ruin and rubble. Collapsed transmission towers trail snapped power lines. A disintegrating bridge. Cars overturned and their metal frames twisted out of shape. Streets strewn with bricks and concrete and debris, and horribly, a handful of decomposing bodies in every street. Crushed by falling buildings or poisoned by the foul water or stampeded during the initial panic or killed by desperate survivors fighting over rations.

A train lying on its side, gone off its rails, windows smashed, one of its carriages concaved. Tony deliberately doesn’t look inside the train cars beyond a cursory glance, but his genius brain whirs, and he automatically calculates a rough estimate of how many of the passengers died instantly, before they even knew what happened.

He thinks they might be the lucky ones.

There are other human survivors, but they don’t make themselves known today. Everywhere Tony looks, he sees arid bombsites. Flushing Bay stinks and the rotting carcasses of marine life float belly up on the oily water surface. There aren’t even any birds. Any animal with wings would have either suffocated or taken to higher grounds, like the mountains.

Fingers gripping Tony’s hand. Green eyes too big for her face. Cheeks too hollow. Bones protruding. Emaciated. Ragged too-big shirt and shorts. Skin caked in grime and muck, bruised and stretched brittle over sharp bones. Red hair dull and matted and short, cut with a pair of rusty garden shears. Tony mourns the loss of the long silky locks, though he knows it’s more hygienic. During the days when they find water, they ration it out, sharing a single wet sponge between them. Water is too precious nowadays to waste on baths.

Pepper Potts.

_Pep._

She’s the first thing he sees when he wakes and the last thing he sees before he sleeps. She’s his constant companion in his dreams and during his waking hours. She’s the lonely, lonely light in this dark, dark world – the single, flickering glare of a lightbulb in a pitch-black room. Tony’s afraid to let her out of his sight, afraid he’ll _lose_ her, afraid she’ll be taken from him, like Rhodey and Happy and Peter and then it would just be Tony, alive, _alone_.

She looks older than she actually is, he thinks, eyes tracing the lines carved deep into her forehead, around the edges of her eyes and mouth, the days since Thanos like water eroding lines into rock. Even her hair, underneath its layer of dust and oil, is losing its vivid strawberry-blonde hue, turning lusterless, premature grey hair streaking from her temples.

She looks old.

They both do.

Ten years together as leaders of Stark Industries. Ten years after that, with him as Iron Man.

The ten years after Thanos, Tony’s Mind Stone induced nightmarish hallucination turned reality.

_I saw them all dead, Nick. Felt it. The whole world too. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t do all I could. Watched my friends die, you think that would be as get as it gets. Nope. Wasn’t the worst part._

_The worst part is that you didn’t._

He didn’t. But neither did Pepper.

Pepper squeezes his hand again, shadowed green eyes scanning the pea-soup sky. “Just give me another minute,” she murmurs. “This’ll be the last time we’ll see this place again.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” The words trip over Tony’s tongue, clumsy and desperate and unpolished, like he’s been holding those thoughts in for months, which of course, he has. “We don’t have to leave. We don’t have to do anything. We can just stay here. Grow old.”

Pepper turns to look fully at him. Tony watches her out of the corner of his eye. Her hand moves up his wrist, to his arm and elbow, coming to a stop on his shoulder, her calloused bony fingers running lightly over his stiff muscles.

“We got really lucky,” Pepper says, soft and sad.

“I know.”

“A lot of people didn’t.” Pepper’s gaze returns to the ruined street, voice turning – not fragile, but brittle, warping under the heat and pressure of something she doesn’t want to say and Tony doesn’t want to hear.

“We can’t help everybody.”

Pepper’s left cheek lifts in a lopsided smile. “It sort of seems like we can.”

“Not if we stop.” Tony grips her shoulders. He’s completely serious. “We could put a pin on it right now and stop. Every single nerve in my body is telling me to put this is a lockbox and drop it in the bottom of the ocean.” He runs a thumb over the fabric of Pepper’s sleeve. “You were always the one asking me to stop, and I know I didn’t get it then, but I do now. I’m stopping now.”

_We tried. We all tried. The whole world tried. And the whole world failed. We fought our good fight and we lost. We’ll never be able to erase that, no matter what we do now. We’ll always remember our failure. This plan won’t change that, it just gives us a new way to fail, a way to make things worse._

Pepper’s smile is bitter. “But I can’t.”

“I can’t lose you,” Tony begs. “If this goes wrong… I can’t be alone, Pep. I just _can’t._ ”

It’s Pepper who found Tony, the day the war ended, the day Thanos destroyed the universe, the day they _lost._ In the middle of a battlefield turned mass graveyard, Tony clutching Rhodey’s body, War Machine’s silver armor melted grotesquely to its pilot’s skin. Pepper found him there. Pepper pulled him out of the bottomless well of his grief. Pepper helped him bury Rhodey’s body. Pepper cried with him when they found out what happened to Happy, to Peter. Pepper helped Tony live again.

Tony doesn’t know what he would have done if Pepper hadn’t found him then. He can’t quite remember what exactly happened directly after the battle, only a blind haze of horror and desolate misery and the surreal thought of _we can’t have lost_ , over and over again, like a rewinding tape. Then bits and pieces much later on: Pepper’s fingers gripping his own, her nails chewed down to their stubs; her neat business suit so blackened the white fabric was unrecognizable; a flash of her expression, terrified and fraying and lost, but holding it together by a hair’s breadth because Tony was already falling apart and one of them needed to have it all together.

Tony thinks if he’d lost Pepper as well that day, he would have just… stopped. He would have stayed in that field of dying and dead soldiers, given up and laid down to die, let his body rot right next to Rhodey’s.

“You’re the one thing,” Tony says. “The one thing-” He tastes blood in his mouth, his teeth breaking the inner skin of his cheek. _It’s not our problem_ , he wants to say, even though he knows it’s unbelievably childish and selfish to think that.

 _Then who’s problem is it?_ Pepper will counter. _There’s no one else left. Only us._

Pepper leans into him, forehead against his. She’s so close. Tony can count her every freckle, every single strand of red-gold eyelash as they flutter against his cheek, sees himself magnified in her green, green eyes. Poisonous, concentrated green. Everything about her is so present, so _real_. She’s the realest thing in his universe, his one tether to sanity.

“You’re all I have too, you know,” Pepper says. She touches his cheek, ear to lip.

Tony’s heart aches, right beneath the patch of skin on his chest where his mark is.

 _Tony_ , it says, which has never been helpful, in handwriting that he doesn’t recognize. The words have been greyed out for ten years.

…

_How far back do we go?_

_We could change it all. All the people who died. All the pointless fighting._

_But should we? Do we have the right?_

_How far will we go down that road, Tony?_

_As far as we can take it._

_…_

**2008**

Ho Yinsen finds, near three months into their captivity/acquaintance, that the famous CEO isn’t really anything like what he expected him to be like – that is to say, Yinsen expects him to be the same man YInsen met ten years ago – crude, self-obsessed, mannered, supercilious, and a general dismissive – how did the Americans put it? Ah, yes – asshole.

Stark is not such an asshole, Yinsen finds.

At least, not to Yinsen, that same assholishness returns full-force when dealing with the Ten Rings.

An old soul, Yinsen would call Stark. There’s something terrible hidden behind the shutters of Tony’s dark eyes – Stark has been through something horrible, more horrible than the Ten Rings, than waterboarding, than captivity and the looming threat of their deaths. The prisoners of war in Gulmira have what everyone calls the thousand-yard stare. Stark has that, except it may be more appropriate to call his the _billion_ -yard stare instead.

Yet despite the jadedness that always seems to weigh down Tony’s every movement, that etches itself into every nuance of his expression, Stark treats his entire captivity with an unnerving amount of sanguinity, which suggests that he’s either overconfident about their chances in getting out of this cave, or that he has a death wish.

“I’ll get you out of here, Yinsen,” Tony assures him in a quiet whisper, during the start of his captivity, when Yinsen expects him to crumple into despair and hopelessness, but this unrelenting sanguineness at least explains why Stark capitulated so easily to Raza’s demand for him to build the Jericho. “I’ll get us both out.”

“I’m sure they’re looking for you, Stark,” Yinsen tells him. “But they will never find you in these mountains.”

A queer half-smile flickers across Tony’s face. “I know. That means we have to make their job easier. I have a plan to get us out of the mountains, away from this camp. As long as we can make it to the desert-”

“Yes, and then we can die from heatstroke or dehydration.”

“There will be people looking for me,” Tony states with certainty, unyielding conviction and bone-deep belief. “I just need time.”

Stark stacks a dozen pieces of tracing paper on top of each other, then gestures Yinsen over for a look. Yinsen scrutinizes the schematics, quietly amazed and incredulous. “And you think you can build this without them noticing?” he murmurs.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Three months,” he promises, voice low. “Then we’re out of here.”

“And you think the military will still be looking for you after three months?” Yinsen asks skeptically.

Tony’s gaze goes distant, the hard edges of his mouth softening. “Not the military,” he says, “No.” His hand drifts to his left wrist, covered in the long sleeve of his shirt. The forge is sweltering, but still Stark takes great pains to hide his words, never baring his arms.

 _PROOF THAT TONY STARK HAS A HEART._ Yinsen is the only one who saw the mark, loopy and feminine, winding around Stark’s pulse-point like a bracelet, when he had his hands in Tony’s chest, conducting open heart surgery and installing the electromagnet to keep the shrapnel from reaching Tony’s heart. It’s not long after that that Stark woke, recognized Yinsen on sight, then touched the words on his wrist like he was surprised at their presence, at the very literal _HEART_ beneath his sleeve.

“Do you have a family, Mr. Stark?” Yinsen asks.

So quickly Yinsen almost doesn’t notice, Tony’s eyes flick mercury-quick to the door to their cell. “I don’t have anyone, no,” he says, raising his voice, as if to ensure the guards can hear every word.

They get to work.

Stark is brilliant, surpassing his own reputation by light years. Yinsen has met many clever men, but Stark’s genius and prowess must be decades if not generations ahead of anyone on the planet.

Stark is also a very good actor, and an even better liar.

At the same time as he’s building their escape route, he’s also building what for all intents and purposes appears to be a half-constructed Jericho missile. He stalls and delays and sidesteps. When Raza comes to inquire about their slow progress, Stark begins a bullshit torrent of explanations with enough scientific terms thrown in – most of which Yinsen is sure Stark makes up on the spot – that Raza loses interest. Stark cowers when Raza’s men cock their guns, he shrinks back down, shoulders hunched, cradling the car battery protectively to his chest. _Look at me._ Stark’s posture seems to say. _Look how scared I am of you. I’m a spoiled rich brat whose never been threatened a day in his life. I’d build you anything to stay alive._

Yinsen sees the dismissiveness with which the Ten Rings regard Tony with. He sees the way Stark doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes, head bowed, hiding the glint of daring fierceness, of resolute fortitude, a spine of steel to match his heart.

They escape the next day.

Yinsen remembers gunshots, screams, fire, the coppery smell of blood, the crunch of broken bones. He remembers Stark in his metal suit, bullets bouncing off the armor, punching through the Ten Rings’ barricades and doors, sending flames and death across the camp. He remembers flying, the hot wind whipping across his face, Stark’s iron-clad arm gripping him tightly. He remembers crashing, hot sand everywhere, the impact jarring, the iron suit in smoking pieces. He remembers Stark laughing, gleeful, almost manically so. He remembers how Tony looked at him, with something like triumph, something like gratitude, like relief and jubilation.

They’re forced to walk, after that, away from the dark smoke pluming up from what remains of the Ten Rings’ base of operations, scraps of cloth wrapped around their heads and shoulders to shield them from the heat of the sun beating down on them. They’re bleeding and stumbling through the scalding sand, skin burning and blistering. Tony’s dark eyes scan the skies, looking, waiting…

Yinsen hears them before he sees them, the _chop-chop-chop_ of helicopters, two of them, army issued. Yinsen yells and waves. Tony falls to his knees, unable to walk another step, but he’s smiling.

The first person stepping out of the helicopters obviously isn’t military – it’s a woman wearing a tracksuit, with long red hair in a ponytail, freckles splashed across the arch of her nose and cheekbones. She runs toward Tony, kicking up a spray of sand with every step, then sinks down to her knees in front of him. Stark falls forward as if shoved from behind, and the two clings to each other, Stark’s forehead on the woman’s shoulder, her lips pressed against his hair.

A stocky dark-haired man in a suit clambers out of the chopper, followed by a dark-skinned Colonel. Yinsen is swarmed by the rest of the search and rescue team, but he watches as the stocky man rushes towards Stark and the woman, clasping Tony’s hand and pulling him to his feet. “I got you, boss,” he says.

The Colonel stops a bit further away. “How was the Fun-vee?” Tony’s smile is watery, nostalgic, as he looks back and forth between the stocky man and the Colonel, eyes bright and shining. “Next time you ride with me, okay?” the Colonel says.

Tony gives a choked laugh, a tight, bottled-up sound, and pulls both men into an embrace.

Later, as the helicopters take off, Yinsen will watch the way Tony and the redhaired woman, Miss Potts, sit close together, Tony’s sleeve riding up to expose the skin of his wrist, the small and sad smile on Miss Potts’ face as she traces the HEART on his skin with her fingertips. He will watch as Tony’s bodyguard Mr. Hogan hands over a wrapped cheeseburger, the way Colonel Rhodes can barely stand to let Stark out of his sight, and he will wonder.

Who exactly is Tony Stark? Yinsen will ask himself. What kind of man is he? Resourceful and cunning enough to rescue himself from the hands of terrorists and certain death. Ruthless and harsh enough to kill every Ten Rings’ member that stood in his way. Compassionate enough to care about his weapons in the wrong hands, to feel guilt about the destruction they caused in Gulmira and other villages like it. What kind of man is Tony, to inspire women like Miss Potts and men like Mr. Rhodes and Mr. Hogan to spend months scouring the deserts for him?

…

_We can’t do this alone._

_Two people – even us, Tony – no matter how much power or influence they have, just can’t control everything. It’d drive us crazy to even try._

_We need to bring other people in._

_Rhodey and Happy. We can’t do this without them._

_Nick Fury. We need him to take care of HYDRA._

_The Wakandans. Imagine what Shuri could cook up in her lab if she had advance warning of Thanos._

_Shuri, T’Challa, T’Chaka… are we missing anyone else?_

_No Avengers._

_No Avengers whatsoever, promise._

_…_

“Mr. Stark, you’ve become part of a bigger universe, you just don’t know it yet.” The shadowed figure looking out of the windows of Tony’s Malibu mansion, over the coastal cliffs, turns and steps into the dim lighting. Tony has to hand it to Fury – the sneaky bastard sure knows how to make an entrance. “I’m Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD.” The stupid eyepatch. God, he looks so _young_. “I’m here to talk to you about the Avengers Initiative.”

“You know, I actually had a witty rejoinder planned for this very occasion.” Tony starts to pat down his pockets. “But I’ve just had a _very_ long day… Stane’s arrest for double-dealing… my new bodyguard Iron Man… so I’m just going to skip right to the point…”

“Yes, your _bodyguard,_ ” Fury drawls, crossing his arms. “That whole cover story? He’s a _bodyguard_? That’s kind of flimsy, don’t you think? Surely, Tony Stark can do better than _that_.”

Tony chuckles. “Oh, when you remember, I’m definitely going to remind you of that. You’re very lucky I just came back from meeting with T’Challa, otherwise I’d have to borrow this thing from Big Bird, the Transcendental Meditation remix, again… Strange never said the Sorcerer Supreme before him was so _weird_ …”

“Stark, what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about… _this_!” From his jacket pocket, he brings out an ornate golden casing, which folds back to reveal a glowing green gem. He holds it up in the air dramatically.

Fury stares at the gem, then stares back at Tony, stony-eyed.

“Just give it a moment,” Tony says.

The gem twinkles merrily at them.

Fury’s expression doesn’t even twitch.

Tony shakes the Time Stone vigorously. “I swear it didn’t take this long for T’Challa and the others. I just opened the case and then _boom-_ ”

“Stark, what the hell is that thing?”

Gritting his teeth, Tony slams the Time Stone several times on the countertop, the way he would a piece of lagging tech. “You’re embarrassing me in front of a pirate!” Tony hisses to it.

Without the slightest change in expression, Fury sits down quickly.

“There we go.” Tony stashes the Time Stone back out of sight. “All caught up then? Good.”

“What the fucking hell-!”

“Cliff notes,” Tony quips, clasping his hands together. “Aliens invaded. The world ended. Get the e-book. I don’t want to say I told you so-”

“Stark-”

“But to be fair, I _did_ tell you so!”

Fury’s temper rises to boiling point. “ _What in effing hell did you do?_ ”

“I gave us a second chance is what I did, Nick,” Tony says, turning serious. “So. Yes. You were saying? The Avengers Initiative, huh? Hmm. Let me think about that for a moment.” He pauses for a second. “Thought about it. No, thanks. Saving the world, yes. The Avengers, not recommended. But I have a counterproposal. I’m going to throw you a bone, if you will, because I’m nice like that.” Tony spreads his hands open wide. “Let’s talk about HYDRA.”

…

The ocean glistens red from the sunset, dark foamy waves creasing the surface of the sea. The sky is dark, the clouds tinted almost green, and the stars winking to life above them like sprinkled sugar. The wind is strong and smells of salt.

Despite all that, Tony can tell that Pepper’s mind is far away – back in California, almost definitely, with Stark Industries. The Board of Directors are being twice as difficult as they were last time, as the news of SI moving out of the weapons business is now coupled with Pepper’s ascension as CEO. Add in the headaches that are Tony’s weapons still in terrorists’ hands, the military’s discontent, and Iron Man’s extracurricular activities, even with Rhodey and Fury running interference, Pepper was at her wit’s end when Tony broached the topic of a break with her.

“Hey.” Tony touches her hand. “Enjoy the moment, remember? This is supposed to be your hard-earned vacation, Pep.”

Pepper blows out a breath through her lips. Her long red hair sways with the bobbing motion of the luxury yacht as it rocks on top of the waves. Tony starts to massage her shoulders, digging his thumbs into the tense muscles between her shoulder-blades, working up her neck. The tension slowly leaves her body as he works at a particularly stubborn kink. Tony’s fingers skim across the bare skin not covered by Pepper’s red sundress. He watches the shine of her dark red hair, the color of red wine, winding a single curl of it indulgently around his fingers. He’d forgot Pepper’s hair had once been this color. As she’d got older, the hue had lightened until it was strawberry-blonde. He kisses her bare shoulder. Her hair smells like rose and mountain laurel. The salty wind blows the skirts of her dress around her thighs. Her skin is rosy and very freckled from sunbathing all day. Her sunglasses – large ones that cover half her face – have been nudged up to rest in her hair. Incongruously, she also wears a pair of frayed sneakers.

Pepper makes a deep, appreciative noise in her throat, tilting her head back against the deck chair so she can look him in the eye. Her green eyes are half-lidded and drowsy. “Why can’t you be like this all the time?”

“Because then we both know you’d get bored.” Tony presses his heels into the flesh either side of her spine. “And we can’t have that. Who else would you yell at for reckless self-endangerment or scandalmongering?”

Pepper squints up at him. “It _has_ been at least fourteen days since you’ve called a senator an assclown. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you starting to mellow out in your old age.”

“See?” Tony kisses the top of her head and tweaks her nose, making Pepper wrinkle it adorably. “A verifiable record! And I’m going to overlook the fact that you just call me old, by the way. But this is why you deserve a break. Because you work too hard, and you’re too good for me.”

Pepper gives him a playful look. “If we follow that logic, doesn’t that mean I should have a break from _you_?”

“Now that’s just hurtful. I’m hurt, babe, you’ve hurt me.” Tony presses his hand to his chest, giving her a mock-wounded look.

Pepper gives him an incredulous look. “ _Babe?_ ”

Tony makes a face. “Yeah, I was trying it out. Never saying that again.”

“Please don’t.”

Tony bows theatrically. “As milady commands.”

“Much better.” Pepper gives a magnanimous nod. “Why can’t you be this agreeable all the time?”

“That would be no fun.” Tony pouts. “But tonight, your every wish is my command. Think of me as your personal assistant, Miss CEO.” Pepper grins. With a flourish, he takes out the bottle of champagne from the ice bucket. “Would you like the champagne now, Miss Potts?”

“Yes, I would, Mr. Stark.” Pepper pushes herself to her feet and sashays toward him. Tony’s eyes are drawn down, to her bare and pale calves. Pepper smirks, one silver-painted fingernail tapping his chin and tilting his face up, her green eyes sparkling. “See something you like, Mr. Stark?”

“Miss Potts,” Tony breathes out. They’re so close he can count every strand of Pepper’s red-gold eyelash, every dark freckle. Her nail trails dangerously over the pulse fluttering in his neck. “That would be unprofessional. Technically, you’re my boss.”

Pepper’s red lips curve up prettily, coquettishly. “And it wouldn’t do to be unprofessional, would it, Mr. Stark?”

Their lips meet, once, twice, before Tony pulls away, looking dazed.

“Champagne’s getting warm.” He clears his throat, face hot. “Oh, wait,” he says, when Pepper starts to pour the yellowish-tinted drink into two glasses. “We forgot the ice cream.”

Pepper purses her lips together. “Oh, Tony. You know I don’t like ice cream with champagne unless they’re-”

“No, I got your guilt-free ice cream this time,” Tony assures her, rummaging through the ice chest. “Hormone-free, antibiotic-free… now do you want black cherry amaretto or honey toasted almond?”

Pepper arches an eyebrow. “Those are your two least favorite ice cream flavors.”

“But your favorite.” Tony shudders. “Why would anyone make ice cream with tofu instead of milk? That’s like a violation of the natural order of things-”

“It’s nutritious-”

“-a crime against humanity-”

“-and delicious-”

“-right up there with Tolkien and Rothko.” Tony makes a face like ‘ _bleh_ ’. “No accounting for taste.”

Pepper says nothing, but gives him a pointed, judgmental look.

“I didn’t mean me!” Tony squawks.

“I didn’t say anything,” Pepper says innocently, smiling sweetly. “Oh, don’t sulk.” She caresses his cheek. “This really is nice of you, Tony.” Pepper suddenly frowns, turning suspicious. “Uncharacteristically nice.”

“Now don’t say that,” Tony says hastily. “I do nice things for you!”

“No, the luxury yacht and the champagne are quite normal-” Pepper concedes.

“Ah, to be rich again,” Tony mutters to himself. “One of the things I missed most after the world ended – being a billionaire.”

Pepper ignores him. “But _this_?” She taps a nail against the ice-cream container, then jabs at his chest. “Okay, spill.”

Tony looks flat-footed. “Okay… spill what?”

Pepper rubs at her temples. “What did you do this time?”

“Why do you assume it was something I did?” Tony asks indignantly.

“Historical precedence,” Pepper says flatly.

“It’s just ice-cream!”

Pepper looks at him with a hint of accusation. “It reeks of groveling!”

“Reek! It doesn’t _reek-_ ”

“-just like the giant bunny-”

“-oh, of course, you bring up the bunny-”

“Yes, I’m bringing up the guilty conscience bunny-”

“Guilt- I was not- it was a Christmas present!”

“-your guilty conscience overcompensating for building suits in the basement-”

“-still angry about the giant bunny?”

“-buttering me up for something-”

“-holding the giant bunny against me for _years_ – ow!”

Tony clutches his bloodied palm, looking surprised. He's accidentally cut it against the champagne bottle opener while waving his hands around. Pepper looks around for the stack of napkins she saw lying around on somewhere near the bar.

“No, wait, don’t touch that-” Tony begins.

Pepper stills, stack of white pristine napkins in her hand, staring down at the bar counter. Behind her, she hears Tony groaning and muttering angrily to himself.

It’s a ring, the most gorgeous ring Pepper has ever seen, a ring that Tony must have made himself – she recognizes his craftmanship, the rose-gold metal of the band molded into delicate leaves and tiny intricate rose-buds, each flower petal exquisitely crafted, so realistic that she’s almost surprised that the petals don’t give when she touches them. Tiny blue sapphires the same color as his arc reactor have been sprinkled along the band like dew drops. On top of the ring sits a sparkling sapphire the size of her nailbed, cradled elegantly among dainty-looking rose-gold petals, the heart of the rose.

Numbly, she turns to look at Tony, who’s rubbing the back of his neck with his uninjured hand.

He coughs awkwardly. “Yeah… when I planned this, I imagined a lot less arguing… and a lot less bleeding.”

“Is this…?” Pepper trails off, stunned.

“Yeah.” Tony bobs his head, swaying on the balls of his feet. “So…”

Pepper stares back at him blankly. “So?”

Tony gestures expectantly first to her, then to the ring. “ _So?_ ”

Pepper looks at his hopeful expression, before something clicks in her mind. She bites her cheek. “Now that’s just lazy,” she says.

“ _Lazy?_ ” Tony looks aghast. “All this-” He makes an expansive gesture to everything around them: the sparkling night sky, the luxury yacht, the dark sea, the champagne and ice cream. “This is _lazy_? Pep, I always knew you were a bit of a slaver-driver, and it only got worse when I made you my boss but-”

“Yes, _lazy_.” Pepper presses a hand over her mouth to stop the laughter bubbling up her chest from escaping. “I mean… _so?_ Is that _it_? ‘ _So?_ ’ Not even a sentence, just one word? You must not have planned very far ahead, Mr. Stark.”

“You see what I mean?” Tony scoffs. “Impossible standards.”

“I think it might help if you add in a few more words there,” Pepper teases. “Fill in the blanks. I mean, as far as presentations go, this was pretty ambiguous.”

“Well, maybe I can clear things up for you.” Tony lifts his chin up.

“Are you going to pick up the ring?” Pepper nods at the band of rose-gold and sapphires still lying on the counter. She can’t seem to decide what to stare at – Tony or the ring. “Or would you like me to do that for you as well?”

“Well, obviously you should take it.” Tony sniffs, an impish look on his face. “I might get blood all over it.”

Pepper affects a put-upon sigh and picks up the ring. It sits, cold and beautiful and glittering in the center of her trembling palm. “Well, I’m waiting,” she tells him.

Tony opens his mouth, then closes it again. He seems to have been rendered temporarily speechless, mouth floundering. “Right,” he finally manages in a strangled tone. “Words… I’m going to… say them… now… right now…”

Pepper’s cheeks hurt. “I’m sure this went perfectly in your head, right?”

Tony clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Well, if you want to be really technical about it, we went through all of this already.”

“I remember.” Pepper tilts her head to the side, voice dry. “How did you put it again? Ah, yes – _well, it might buy us some time_ , you said.” Both her eyebrows are in danger of disappearing into her hairline. “I think you can do a little better than that, Mr. Stark.”

Tony is so close she can feel the heat of him against her skin. His dark eyes are wild and bright, almost frightened. He’s trembling imperceptibly. His palm has stopped bleeding. The light of his arc reactor casts his face in stark shadows. Pepper imagines that if she touches his neck, she would be able to feel his pulse jumping, his heart racing. She feels powerful, in control. _He’s mine_ , she thinks possessively. _All mine._

“Miss Potts.” Tony stops, licks his lips. “I think, if we were a normal couple, if we were both normal people, I’d ask you to spend your life with me.” He smiles. “But that’s not right, isn’t it?” The expression on Tony’s face as he gazes at her is beatific, blissfully happy, like he’s laying eyes on something ethereal, almost heavenly. Pepper holds his gaze, humbled. “We’ve already had a lifetime together, and it was… well, it wasn’t _good_ , really, the end of the world and all, and actually, most of it was pretty fucking terrible-”

Pepper laughs. “Watch it, Mr. Stark. Foot. Mouth.”

“The point I’m getting to is that you, Miss Potts, made it _not_ terrible.” Tony looks luminously attractive like this, as if the arc reactor is flooding his entire body with blue light. “When everything was falling apart, you were the one who held me together; when the world was full of death and darkness and cold, you were life and light and warmth; when I thought I had nothing, you gave me hope, you gave me something to live for, something worth holding on to.”

Tony’s gaze is too intense. Looking into his eyes is like staring into the glare of a bare lightbulb.

“If we were a normal couple… if we were both normal people… I’d talk about fate and destiny and soul-marks.”

Tony’s left hand reaches out, touches the skin over her heart, where her own mark appeared when they awoke in the past – _It’s always been you_. In their old lives, Pepper had no mark and Tony had someone else’s, but the skin over his heart where his greyed-out mark sat for ten years after the world ended is rough and angry-looking, like a constantly healing wound, scraped out to make room for Pepper’s words in Tony’s soul.

“But that’s not right either,” Tony says softly. “You and I, Pep… we weren’t fated, we weren’t destined.” Pepper takes his hand and lifts it to her cheek. “We’re not each other’s soulmates – but we’re each other’s _choice_. And that’s good, that’s _fantastic_ , because I don’t believe in soulmates, I never have. I never believed in fate or destiny… but what I have always believed in were choices. We choose our own destinies, our own fates… and I chose you… I _believe_ in _you_ – _it’s always been you_.”

Pepper can feel Tony’s hand trembling against her cheek. Her whole body is shaking as well, legs turned to jelly, muscles quivering. She can’t seem to stop smiling.

“It’s not enough,” Tony declares. “One lifetime. Fate. Destiny. Soulmates. Those aren’t enough, so I won’t ask you for that.” He looks at her blazingly, fierce, burning as brightly as a sun going supernova. It hurts to look at him, but she can’t look away. “I ask you,” he says. “For lifetimes. For choice. I’m asking you to marry me, Pepper Potts.”

They kiss. It’s awkward. Tony has dried blood on his palm, and he doesn’t seem to know where to put his injured hand. Pepper is crying tears of joy. She almost drops the ring more than once, but she presses closer, as if trying to crush their two bodies into one, unable to bear being even a millimeter apart.

“Marry me, Pep,” Tony says against her skin, beard scraping against her cheek. “Say yes. Choose me in this life, and the next, and the one after that.”

“Only three lives?” Pepper laughs. “Poor showing, Mr. Stark.”

“Say yes,” Tony pleads. “Say yes and marry me. Say yes and I will love you, I will choose you, _forever_ , for however long that means, however many lifetimes. _Say yes_.”

…

**2009**

Blue holographic screens – some of them showing schematics of several queer-looking satellites orbiting around Earth, others monitoring what appears at first glance to be a half-built mechanical shield of truly epic dimensions, spanning just a small portion of the sun’s fiery surface. Tools and half-finished projects are strewn on every flat surface, stacked haphazardly on overflowing shelves. A partially assembled Iron Man gauntlet, a prototype of a new repulsor boot, a badly cracked faceplate with the red-and-gold paint almost completely scraped off litter the dented and scratched worktable.

A handful of 3D images are being holographically projected in the center of the lab: two vaguely circular masses of flickering light, one yellow, the other pink; and a slowly revolving model of a sleek seven-seater car, the STARK logo stamped onto the hood. A dark-haired man dressed in an oily, ragged wifebeater peers at the hologram of the car, frowning, and with a negligent flick of his wrist, he pulls up another holographic VDU.

“JARVIS, put in a few talking points for the Repulsor Car – the future of clean energy, better performance than high-octane fuel, eco-friendly – you know the drill. The presentation’s due this week and you know how the wife gets when I leave things last minute.”

“Doing it now, sir.”

Sections of the yellow cloud of light brighten and dim, slivers of gleaming gold light bouncing from one pathway to the next, like neurons firing.

“FRIDAY, how’s the simulation going?”

“Multiple renderings completed, boss. Security parameters holding at ninety-nine percent.”

Tony Stark frowns, shaking his head. “With a one percent chance of a future wannabe Vanko or Hammer 2.0 reverse-engineering the power source. Nope. Uh-uh. No can do. We’re not debuting the Repulsor Car with anything less than a hundred percent guarantee my tech won’t end up in the wrong hands. Been there. Done that. Donated the t-shirt to Goodwill. Zero out of ten. Do not recommend. Will not do again. I’m running out of ways to verbally express my dissatisfaction.” He clasps his hands together decisively. “Do better, FRIDAY.”

The female Irish voice sighs exasperatedly. “As you wish, boss.”

“And how is the newest member of the household settling in?” Tony raps his knuckles against the wall. “What do you think of your new office, baby girl? Are your older siblings treating you all right?”

A third AI consciousness appears, glowing a cheerful strawberry-red. The brain is rather significantly smaller and less complex than JARVIS’s and even FRIDAY’s, but then, she _was_ born yesterday.

“All these shiny new processes?” The AI purrs. “Forget diamonds. You need to go down a step on the periodic table to turn a twenty-first century girl’s head, but silicon is _my_ best friend.”

“Your name is PEPPER,” Tony tells her. “And by the way, don’t tell my wife that you think she’s a step down the periodic table. Or if you do, don’t do it when I’m in the room, because that’s not a fight I want to witness.”

“Neat name,” PEPPER chirps. “PEPPER. P.E.P.P.E.R. Peeeepppppeeer. I like it! What does it stand for?”

Tony smiles fondly. “It doesn’t matter what it stands for. All that matters is that it doesn’t stand for my bull.”

He can _hear_ the smirk in PEPPER’s voice. “ _That_ I can do.”

“Atta girl,” Tony says proudly.

He hears the distinctive click of high heels as Pepper – not to be confused with PEPPER, in all caps – descends the staircase to his lab. She’s dressed in a formal olive-green suit and skirt. She quirks her lips when she meets Tony’s eyes. Her long wine-red hair has been flat-ironed, and it falls attractively around her shoulders in straight, shiny locks, shifting minutely with every slight movement of her head. The gold band of her wedding ring catches his eye as she keys in the passcode to the lab, and Tony once again finds himself grinning like a fool as his wife – his _wife_! – steps into his workshop.

“You’re here early.” Tony accepts the kiss to the cheek. “I wasn’t expecting you until next week. Miss me that much?”

“You wish.” Pepper ruffles her husband’s hair affectionately. “The meeting in New York wound up early.”

“That’s good.” Tony squints at her. “That _is_ good, right?”

“Yes, it is, Tony.”

“Okay, so… I’m a little confused.” Tony makes a very vague gesture that manages to obliquely encompass the general expression on her face. “We should be celebrating. A private dinner. Romantic walk on the beach. Stark Tower is officially in the works – two years ahead of schedule. Yay! But your face-”

Pepper narrowed her green eyes dangerously. “What _about_ my face?”

“It’s very…” Tony makes the vague gesture again, his own face mimicking hers: lips pursed like he’s sucking on something lemon-sour, brows furrowed, squinty eyes. Pepper’s expression turns thunderous.

“Very?” Pepper says darkly.

Tony opens his mouth, thinks better of it. “Very _not_ celebratory.”

Pepper’s lips are thin and bloodless, but thankfully, she lets his faux pas pass. Instead, her green eyes move to the holograms. Her brow knits together. “You brought another AI online? Tony, what do you need three AIs for?”

“Oh no, Pep, this is completely necessary. We already have JARVIS hooked up to the mansion and a few years he’s going to be running the tower as well. FRIDAY helps you run the company, so that leaves PE-” Tony cuts himself off just in time, eyes widening at his almost blunder, but he recovers quickly. “The new AI helps me run the suit.” He addresses PEPPER, “How are the security scans?”

“Usual attempts at surveillance from various intelligence organizations.”

“None of these better be from SHIELD.” Tony scowls at the thought. “Nick isn’t that stupid. Any of them get through?”

“All safely diverted. They think you’re browsing for sports cars.”

“Your AI’s a girl.” Pepper looks curious.

“No, the AI’s a _lady_ , Ms. Potts.”

Pepper’s jaw drops and her green eyes go wide with realization. “Is that AI meant to be _me_ , Tony?”

“Err…” Tony mentally scrambles for a way to salvage this situation, preferably in a way that doesn’t result in Pepper storming off in a huff and relegating him to the couch for the next few months. This is _not_ how he imagined their reunion to go.

Pepper puts both hands on her hips austerely. “You’ve made a robot copy of me and made it run your suit?” Her nostrils flare. “This is _unbelievable_. What the hell were you thinking?”

“If I painted a portrait of you, you’d be fine,” Tony complains, a little petulant. “But I’m not an artist like that. It’s not my thing. This is what I do. Doesn’t mean it’s any less sincere.” He looks at her hopefully, but Pepper doesn’t soften. “You’re my wife. I love you. I’m lucky. I know that. But you were gone so long-”

“Do _not_ make this somehow my fault-”

“-and I missed you.” Tony gazes at her pleadingly. “It wasn’t to replace you. I couldn’t replace you. It was to remind me of you.”

“‘She’, not ‘it’. ‘It’ really isn’t very polite, Tony. Fem-bots have feelings too,” PEPPER admonishes.

“Sorry, PEPPER,” Tony says, before his brain catches up to his mouth, and he cringes, realizing his mistake.

Pepper stalks away.

“This is meant as a compliment!” Tony calls after her.

“A really creepy compliment,” PEPPER interjects again.

“Shut up, PEPPER!” Tony snaps. He turns to the lab door as he slams shut. “I didn’t mean you, honey!” Back to the AI. “You’re making it worse,” he grouses.

“Well, to be fair, I can hardly make it seem even creepier than it already is.” A pause, then PEPPER adds, “You big weirdo.”

“PEPPER!” Tony says.

“Don’t program me to act like Pepper unless you want me to act like Pepper.”

“She has a point, sir,” JARVIS chimes in.

“Why are you taking her side?” Tony asks peevishly. “I never programmed that in you. JARVIS, tell PEPPER I’m not being creepy.”

Silence. Judgy. Damning.

“FRIDAY, this isn’t creepy, right?” Tony demands.

“A notch beneath stealing used underwear from her wash basket, boss.”

“First of all.” Tony holds up one finger. “If I hypothetically wanted my own wife’s underwear, I wouldn’t need to steal it from her wash basket. Second-”

“Sir,” JARVIS says. So polite. So British. “Perhaps it would be more prudent to speak with Ms. Potts and save the lecture for another time?”

Tony glowers rather fiercely at JARVIS’s prettily twinkling yellow brain. “Well, _obviously_ , JARVIS. I don’t need the most sophisticated AI on the planet to tell me that. I don’t pay you to tell me the obvious stuff, JARVIS.”

“You don’t pay me at all, sir. If I may, it would be much more accurate to liken our employment to indentured servitude.”

“The cheek!”

“Sir, Ms. Potts?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony grumbles. “Ganging up on me in my own home.”

“We can gang up on you outside your home, if you would prefer us to, boss,” FRIDAY suggests brightly.

…

The Malibu mansion is built into the side of the bleak coastal cliffs. Ninety percent of the reason Tony built the mansion in that particular spot and in that particular way is because someone – he can’t remember who – told him building a house there was impossible.

He doesn’t like being told what he can’t do.

It’s a problem.

He’s working on it.

The entire wall of the mansion facing the coast is made of glass, and the opposite wall is lined with mirrors, so the rooms of the mansion look like they go on forever. Tony finds his wife on the balcony. Green sea and blue sky stretch endlessly to the horizon. The wind is fresh and smells salty. Hundreds of feet beneath them, meter-high waves batter against the cliffs. It’s a sheer drop, so far down that a fall from this height would cause them to go splat on impact.

Pepper leans against the guard rail, knuckles white, head bowed. Her shoulders are shaking. Something is wrong. Tony feels his gut sinking like a stone.

“Pep?” Tony says tentatively.

Pepper turns to face him. She looks normal, poised and composed and unruffled as usual, up to the point where she bizarrely and completely out of the blue, bursts into tears and throws herself into Tony’s arms, so forcefully he nearly loses his balance and sends them both crashing painfully to the ground. Though they’ve literally turned back time to their prime, Tony’s current body is still on the wrong side of forty, and his hips aren’t what they used to be.

Panicking, Tony starts to babble. “I mean, if you really feel this strongly about PEPPER-” Pepper sobs harder. “Okay, okay. Not saying the P-word. But she’s still young, just a baby really-” Pepper’s wails reach a crescendo. “-and I only really got around to naming her today. I don’t think she’s very attached to it yet, or too against a name-change. We’ll work something out. Just please stop crying, Pep-”

“I’m pregnant.” Pepper blurts out shrilly.

Tony stops speaking abruptly, his mouth snapping shut with a _click_. He nearly bites his own tongue off. He stares at his wife for several moments, and it’s not until his vision starts to swim and he sways on his feet that he realizes he’s been holding his breath and is about to asphyxiate.

“You’re pregnant?” Tony squeaks.

Pepper nods. “I’m pregnant.”

“You’re pregnant,” Tony squawks. “Oh. Wow.” Pepper watches him guardedly. “So that’s why you’ve been-”

“Why I’ve been…?” Pepper’s eyes are rimmed in red, like she’s been crying, but she gives him a _look_ that tells him she can still kill him with one of her beloved Jimmy Choo’s and then make sure nobody finds the body afterwards. She’s completely terrifying. Tony loves her so much.

He swallows nervously. “Been so lovely.”

Pepper regards him flatly, unimpressed. “Yes.”

“That is…” Tony trails off, looking blank and more than a little lost. “Actually, I don’t know what that is. Is that good or bad?”

Pepper sighs. “Oh, Tony…”

“See?” Tony pokes her in the ribs, making her squirm. “I hear the way you say my name, and you sound like you think this is a bad thing. What? Don’t look at me like that, Pep. For once in my life, I’m not being facetious, honest – or at least, I’m not actively trying to be. It might be so ingrained in my DNA at this point that-”

“ _Tony._ ”

“Okay, not distracted anymore. Do you want this to be a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Tony,” Pepper says again. She presses trembling fingers to her eyes. “How can this possibly be a good thing?”

“How can this possibly be bad?” Tony counters.

They tried, before the Accords and after Ultron, for a baby. They were never particularly careful with birth control even before that, but they never even had a scare, not once. Pepper’s period came like clockwork, and eventually the hope and the corresponding disappointment drove them apart, if only for a time, before the Rogue Avengers fucked off to Wakanda and Tony proposed to Pepper on live TV.

“You _know_ ,” Pepper says, voice tight with anxiety. “After what we’ve seen, after what we’ve experienced… for God’s sake, Tony, the world is going to end in less than ten years!”

“ _Might_ end. The world _might_ end in less than ten years-”

“Oh, _might_ end! That’s very reassuring, Tony. Just what every glowing mother-to-be wants to hear-”

“-an important distinction right there. One denotes a sense of inevitability, suggests that it’s inescapable, the other has a bit more wiggle room-”

“-what kind of people would we be – what kind of parents-”

“-isn’t the point of this entire time travel schtick to change the future? _Change_ it? Not relive it?”

“-if we brought a kid into this world knowing it’s going to be fucked up-”

“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? We don’t know for sure it’s going to be fucked up. You’re basing that knowledge on a redundant future – a future that we erased. That’s just conjecture, that’s all theory-”

“Tony, listen to me!” Pepper shouts. “You have to be serious about this! This isn’t a-a whim, something’s that’s easily brushed aside once you're bored with. This-this is a child, a future person, so you cannot afford to joke around when we’re supposed to be having a serious discussion right now, and Tony, I’m sorry but you’re not thinking clearly-”

“What makes you think that?” Tony says in a rush. There’s a feverish light about him. “Why would you-? I _am_ thinking clearly, Pep. My thoughts have never been clearer. This has brought all of it into perspective – Thanos, Loki, the rest of the regular Earth threats-”

“This is what I’m talking about, Tony!” Pepper says in frustration. “This, right here, is you not thinking clearly. This is you stubbornly seeing only one part of the big picture. Okay, you know what?”

Tony blinks. “What?”

Pepper takes a bracing breath. “I’m just going to say what we both already know.”

“Well, that might take a while,” Tony muses thoughtfully. “Or conversely, no time at all. I mean, we’re both intelligent people. I’m a genius and you’re… I mean, you. Ergo, we both know a lot of things, and in the overlapping Venn diagram of things that we both know-”

“Tony,” Pepper says loudly, talking right over him. “You’ve always wanted a baby more than I do.”

It comes out harsher than she means it to, but they both know it’s true.

_I dreamt we had a kid. It was so real._

_We named him after your eccentric uncle. What was his name?_

Tony makes a noise like air escaping a deflating balloon.

“It’s fine if you want it more than I do,” Pepper hurriedly says, before her husband can either start to argue or apologize. “It’s great, actually. I want this baby too. You can’t even imagine.”

“I can imagine.” Tony practically trips over himself to rush forward and take her hand. “Okay? Pep, honey, I _can_. We’ve tried for this for so long-”

“But the _timing_ , Tony-”

“Pep.” Tony touches her face, looks into her green eyes. “I’m Iron Man. It’ll never be the right time for us, for this, for future us-es. Not until Thanos is gone, and I’m sorry, honey, but we can’t wait that long. The baby is here now.” The blood drains from Pepper’s face and her fingers touch her stomach, almost unconsciously. “We’re doing all we can do stop him.” Tony’s voice is low and intent. “Us and SHIELD and Wakanda – building planetary defense systems and making intergalactic allies – and all of that, I’m doing to protect us, the future us-es, and that’s it.” He watches his wife beseechingly. “Just in case there’s a monster in the closet, instead of, you know…”

“Shirts?” Pepper says drolly.

“You know me so well. You finish all my sentences.”

Pepper sighs, closes her green eyes, shakes her head in exasperation. “You should have shirts in your closet… and you’re right.” She takes a deep breath. “I want this baby, Tony,” she confesses with a herculean effort. “Aliens could swoop out of the sky and invade us any second, Thanos is going to descend on us… and despite knowing all that… despite the fact that we’ve seen the world ending, that we _experienced_ it, _lived_ through it, and we _know_ how bad it was when the worst came true… despite all that… I can’t pretend that I don’t want this baby, Tony…” There are tears in her eyes. “No matter how much that scares me. This baby…”

“Is a miracle.” Tony starts to smile, a small tentative thing turning wide and blissful and wondering. “Not even a once-in-a-lifetime miracle, Pep. Nothing so plebian for us. This little bean… she’s a once-in-two-lifetimes miracle.”

Pepper cocks an eyebrow. “She?”

“A girl would be nice,” Tony says wistfully, daring to imagine it. A little chubby-cheeked carrot top with sweet green eyes. A mini Pep. “Less of a chance she’ll turn out like me.”

“Girl or boy,” Pepper says firmly. “She’ll be ours.”

“She will be,” Tony promises. “She’ll be protected… and she’ll be loved.”

“We’re having a baby.” Pepper’s green eyes well up with fresh tears.

“We’re having a baby,” Tony confirms, grinning almost crazily. “Pep, can you let go of me for a second there?” His limbs go numb with delayed shock. His knees hit the floor. Pepper steadies him before he faceplants. “Oh, my God!” He blanches, still grinning somewhat fixedly, looking quite manic. “Pep, we’re having a baby!”

“Don’t faint,” Pepper orders. “Or I’ll tell Rhodey and Happy, and they’ll never let you live it down.”

“No fainting,” Tony says, his face chalk-white.

“I mean it,” Pepper says sternly. “You’re not allowed to faint. I’m the pregnant one. If anyone’s going to be fainting, it’s going to be me.”

“No one’s going to faint,” Tony says weakly. “You’re the CEO of Stark Industries. You’re my wife. You eat scarier things than this for breakfast. And I-I’m Iron Man. I’ve fought off alien invasions, defeated bad guys, survived the end of the world… Pep.” He looks at his wife entreatingly. “I think this might be the most terrifying thing we’ve ever done.”

“I kind of like her,” Pepper says.

“Who? The baby?” Tony goes another shade whiter when he says the word ‘baby’. “You’re supposed to like her, honey. That’s kind of the whole point.”

“No, not the baby.” Pepper gives her husband a droll look. “The AI.” Tony looks woeful and at the same time gratified. “But ‘PEPPER’, Tony? Really? The same name? You’re supposed to be a genius. Can’t you see how that might get even more confusing than when you named U?”

“Tell you what.” Tony snakes an arm around his wife’s waist, holding her close, the other hand lingers over her stomach, still flat with no sign of pregnancy, but he imagines he can sense the tiny fragile life growing inside, dependent on its parents for protection and nutrients and safety. The baby must be so small and he already loves the little bean so much he thinks he might burst from it. “How about, when the baby comes, you can be in charge of naming it?”

Pepper hums pensively, playing with her husband’s fingers as she leans her cheek against his hair. “Didn’t you tell me,” she murmurs, “About a dream you had once?”

_Your eccentric uncle. What was his name?_

_Morgan._

…

Nineteen inches. Five pounds, eleven ounces.

She’s on the small side, so tiny that Tony can hold her with just one arm, not that he dares, of course, because Pepper would kill him. She’s currently recovering from the strenuous and extremely painful process of childbirth, but if she thinks her husband is mishandling her hard-fought-for daughter, Tony has no doubt that Pepper will find the strength to reduce him to a bloody smear on the hospital suite’s spotless floor tiles.

So he cradles the miraculous creature as if she’s the most fragile and precious treasure he’s ever owned in his life, which of course, she is.

God, she’s so small, so perfect.

Tony loves her so much.

She’s no great beauty though. Love is blind, but not _that_ blind. The newborn baby’s skin is wrinkled and a funny purple color, like a lump of overbaked playdough sculpted by a half-blind person, swaddled in a red-and-gold Iron Man themed baby blanket. (Yes, I started a new Iron Baby product line for the company, Rhodey, so sue me. Stop laughing, Happy!)

Yet the moment he lays eyes on his daughter, he falls in love, a love more instantaneous and all-consuming than anything he’s every felt in his entire life. A sense of fervent rightness when Morgan is placed in his arms, her little ugly red face scrunched up in discomfort and she screams bloody murder (she obviously inherited her mother’s lungs). A profound state of contentment as Morgan’s tiny little fingers curl against his palm. An acute happiness and joy as he kisses her head of dark wispy hair, as if a voice has woken up inside his head and is telling him, _this is good, this is right, this is where I belong, this is where I want to be every day for the rest of my life –_ like a key turning hard inside his body. Emotions roll around in him like glass in a kaleidoscope.

_My little Maguna._

God, he loves her so much.

Pepper peers at them drowsily from the bed. She’s pale and drenched with sweat, her long wine-red hair matted and foul.

Tony thinks she’s never looked lovelier.

“Hey, honey.” Tony brushes her hair back from her face. Her skin is warm and tacky. “Look what we did.”

Pepper runs a finger gently down their daughter’s dark wispy hair, her lips curving up in a groggy smile as Morgan blinks large brown eyes curiously at them. “She looks like you,” Pepper comments. “Your eyes and your hair.”

“Your nose, though.” Tony tweaks Morgan’s nose, and she sneezes, looking as adorably indignant as a baby can manage to look. “And your ears. God.” They gaze at their daughter together in silence, lovestruck. “Our impeccable genes, Pep.”

“I’m sorry I pulled out your hair,” Pepper says.

Tony rubs his palm over the bald patch on top of his head. “It doesn’t look too bad, right?”

Pepper’s eyebrow twitches violently. “No, it’s barely noticeable.”

“It’s just hair. It’ll grow back.” Tony shrugs. “You were the one having your baby at the time. Well done. And after witnessing childbirth first-hand, I never want to witness it again.”

“She’s your baby too,” Pepper reminds him. “Give yourself some credit. Give yourself… twelve percent of the credit.”

“Wow.” Tony laughs. “My baby? Twelve percent? I… I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” Pepper smiles at him mockingly.

“Well, you must be practically back to normal if you still have the energy to be yourself.”

“No, don’t kiss me,” Pepper protests, as her husband leans in close. “I’m all gross and I smell.”

Tony presses a kiss to her hair anyway, then sniffs exaggeratedly at her scalp. “You smell great,” he assures her.

Pepper swats his arm. “I stink.”

“Nonsense. Don’t talk about my wonderful wife like that, Pep.” Tony sees her green eyes start to droop. “Sleep it off, honey. The little miss and I will still be here when you wake up.”

As Pepper drifts off, a nurse with silver contacts and a pleasantly round face enters the ward. “Mr. Stark?” she says. “I have a James Rhodes and a Harold Hogan in the waiting room.”

“What took them so long? Did they stop for drive-thru?” Tony replies, but he keeps his eyes glued to Morgan. “Send them in.”

Happy squints when he sees him. “Tony, what happened to your _hair_?”

“Is it obvious? Pepper told me it wasn’t obvious.” Tony feels his scalp self-consciously.

Rhodey’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “Did _she_ do that to you?”

“Well, to be fair, she was in a bit of discomfort at the time.”

Happy snorts. “You look like you’re growing a moustache on your head.”

Tony glances at his reflection. There’s a conspicuous bald-spot right on top of his head, shaped like a handprint, almost as if a shrill pregnant woman in the middle of giving birth had gotten a handhold and yanked the entire handful of hair out of their roots (Smart, gorgeous, _and_ violent. Pepper is a helluva woman. Tony is a lucky, lucky man.). The hair growing on the sides of his head seem even wilder and fluffier in comparison, and it does indeed, as Happy so tactfully put it, look like Tony has a moustache on top of his head.

“I hate you,” Tony tells him. “Do you want to see my kid or not?”

Happy makes grabby hands. “Gimme.”

“No, wait.” Tony bats Happy’s hands away. “Heads or tails.”

Happy looks unimpressed. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Happy, Rhodey, heads or tails?”

Rhodey shrugs. “Tails.”

Tony promptly puts Morgan into Rhodey’s eager arms, showing him how to support the newborn’s head and neck. “Seriously?” Happy says again.

“What?” Tony harrumphs. “I flipped the coin earlier and Rhodey won fair and square.” Morgan blinks her big brown eyes up at them, and Tony coos over her. “Gentlemen, may I present to you, the product of mine and Pepper’s impeccable genes.” He gently pokes Morgan’s chubby baby cheeks (her skin is so soft!), and she puckers her lips into an adorable little moue. “Rhodey, your goddaughter – Morgan Happy Stark.”

Both Rhodey and Happy start to tear up.

“Oh, God.” Rhodey sniffles and swipes at his streaming nose, his voice is watery. “Why am I crying? I was gonna be cool.”

“Grown-ass man crying and holding a baby.” Tony pats his shoulder, nodding sagely. “Very cool.”

“Language,” Happy says darkly.

Tony splutters. “Seriously?”

“Little ears are in the room, Tony,” Happy says sternly.

“She’s a baby! She can’t understand me! Even I wasn’t born from my mother’s womb understanding every word I hear. You can’t understand me, can you?” Tony coos over the baby, adopting a high-pitched, exaggeratedly mushy tone. “Can you, little miss?”

“My turn.” Happy taps Rhodey on the shoulder, holding out his arms expectantly. “Gimme.”

Rhodey clutches a baby possessively. “A few more minutes.”

“Man, don’t hog her,” Happy whines. “Get your ugly mug out of her face and let her meet her Uncle Happy.”

Morgan starts to fuss at the raucous argument.

“See?” Rhodey says. “Now you’re going to make the baby cry.”

Tony stops staring soppily at his daughter long enough to smack both his best friends upside the head. “Learn to share,” he hisses. “Or I’ll make _you_ cry.”

Rhodey and Happy exchange a glance, then choruses “Yes, dad” in eerie and synchronized mockery.

“Typical,” Tony grumbles without any heat. “The only time you two ever agree with each other is to gang-up on me.” Rhodey reluctantly passes Morgan over to Happy. “You’re on my side, aren’t you, Maguna?” Tony says in a cutesy voice.

Morgan, drooling all over her swaddling clothes, mumbles incoherently before her eyes start to droop. But Tony take that as a ‘yes’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of things happening behind the scenes here, and Tony references them in passing. Just to be clear, these are the things that Tony and Pepper have gotten out of their way to change:  
> 1\. They used the time stone to bring back the memories of future Rhodey, Happy, Nick Fury, and the Wakandan royal family.  
> 2\. Pepper arrested Stane for double-dealing under the table while Tony was still in Afghanistan, so Iron Monger never happens.  
> 3\. Tony never comes out as Iron Man. He tells the reporters Iron Man is his bodyguard.  
> 4\. Tony and Fury are working on getting rid of HYDRA. Just assume that by 2012, HYDRA has been completely eradicated, except for a few splinter cells.


	2. Peter, Morgan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own anything.
> 
> Inspiration taken from Doctor Who:  
> 1\. The Beast Below. 11th Doctor: "Children cry because they want attention, because they're hurt or afraid. But when they cry silently, it's because they just can't stop. Any parent knows that."  
> 2\. Listen. 12th Doctor: "Let me tell you about scared. Your heart is beating so hard, I can feel it through your hands. There's so much blood and oxygen pumping through your brain, it's like rocket fuel. Right now, you could run faster and you could fight harder, you could jump higher than ever in your life. And you are so alert, it's like you can slow down time. What's wrong with scared? Scared is a superpower."
> 
> See end notes for more.
> 
> Comments, kudos, subscriptions are welcome!

**2010**

Uncle Ben isn’t moving. Why isn’t he moving? There’s a red spot like cranberry sauce on his shirt, slowly getting bigger and bigger, kinda like the time when Peter fell off his training bike when he was really small and got a really painful boo-boo and Uncle Ben kissed it better. Uncle Ben always knows what to do to make things better. But Peter isn’t like his Uncle Ben, and Peter doesn’t know how to make him better.

“Uncle Ben!” Peter says, shaking his shoulder. He scrubs at his eyes. Peter is eight years old, a big brave boy, Uncle Ben told him so, and big brave boys don’t cry. “Uncle Ben!” Peter turns to the mouth of the alley, where lots and lots of grown-ups are walking past. “Please can you help? My Uncle Ben is hurt!” A tall skinny woman with a black dress and a fancy handbag walks past him like he’s invisible. “Please, I need help!” But no one stops to help. No one even looks at him.

Peter starts to cry right there on the sidewalk. Tears drip down his face and his throat works noiselessly. He’s not brave after all. He’s scared and alone and he doesn’t know what to do. He wants his Aunt May to give him a kiss on the cheek and tell him everything’s going to be okay. He wants his Uncle Ben to wake up, give him a hug, and call him squirt.

“Hey, kid, what’s wrong?”

Everything is blurry. Peter’s eyes feel watery and swollen. His nose is streaming, snotty and disgusting. There’s a stranger crouched down in front of him. A man older than Uncle Ben, with dark hair and a funny-looking beard, looking at Peter worriedly.

Hiccupping, still unable to speak, Peter points mutely behind him to Uncle Ben. The strange man follows Peter back to the alley, and his face changes to become almost angry when he sees Uncle Ben.

Uncle Ben looks so bad now. His face is grey and he’s coughing blood. Peter starts to cry again.

“PEPPER?” The strange man says.

A woman’s brisk, no-nonsense voice answers him. “Bullet fragments in his sternum. A ruptured lung. Internal bleeding. He’s lost a lot of blood, Tony. It’s not looking too good.”

Peter sobs.

“Oh, no… kid, don’t cry. I can fix this.” The strange man gets to his knees beside Uncle Ben, even though the floor is filthy and the man is wearing what looks like a really nice and expensive suit. A slot opens up at the side of his silver watch, and some sort of silvery metal-like liquid comes out. The shiny metallic liquid moves like it’s alive, and slips beneath Uncle Ben’s shirt. Peter stops crying, watching curiously.

“Condition stabilized.”

This time, Peter is paying enough attention to hear where the woman’s voice comes from – a large red-and-gold robot, more than six feet tall, and oddly enough, carrying a brightly colored boxed toy set.

 _Iron Man!_ Peter’s eyes widen. _Which means…_

“You’re Tony Stark!” Peter gasps, awestruck.

Tony Stark – oh, wow! Tony Stark! Ned is never going to believe this – stops whatever he’s doing to give Peter a reassuring smile and ruffle his hair, which makes Peter feel all warm and happy inside, the way he always does when Uncle Ben does it.

“Hang on there, kid,” Tony Stark says. “We’ll save your Uncle Ben, don’t worry.”

Already, Uncle Ben looks less grey. His eyelids twitch and flicker, like he’s about to wake up.

“PEPPER.” Tony Stark gets to his feet and wipes his hands on his pants. “Get Ben Parker to the hospital. The kid and I will catch up.”

Iron Man hands the boxed toy set to Tony Stark, then the suit opens ( _Wow! That’s so cool!_ Peter thinks) and Peter is a little bit disappointed when he sees that no one’s inside. Instead, the empty suit wraps itself around Uncle Ben, then its repulsors fire up and it shoots into the sky with enough force to part Peter’s hair. Peter watches the Iron Man suit take Uncle Ben farther and farther away, heart in his throat.

“C’mon, kid.” Tony Stark holds out a hand, wiggling his fingers in invitation. “I’ll take you to the hospital.” He’s carrying the boxed toy set awkwardly with the other arm. The box is bright green and orange, with pictures of plastic cakes and teacups and a pink teapot with a smiley face on it. The words at the top say _Sweet Treats Musical Tea Set._

 _Tony Stark can do anything and Iron Man’s a superhero._ Peter thinks. _They’ll save Uncle Ben._

Still sniffling a little, Peter takes Tony Stark’s hand. Tony Stark doesn’t seem to mind that Peter’s fingers are sticky and tacky with snot, he just holds on tight and leads Peter out onto the main street, toward the hospital, ignoring the people who stop to stare at them, some of them even take photos. Peter shrinks away self-consciously, ducking his head and picking at the hem of his Star Wars t-shirt, trying to make himself smaller. He wants to sink right through the ground, just so everyone would stop staring at him.

“What’s your name, kid?”

Peter peeks up at Tony Stark shyly. “Peter.”

“How old are you, Pete?”

Peter scuffs his sneakers against the pavement and almost trips, but Tony Stark catches him and sets him back down on his feet. “Eight.”

“Really? You’re small for your age,” Tony Stark comments. “Do you want me to call anyone? Like your parents or…”

“I don’t have parents,” Peter says sadly. “I used to have them, but they died when I was very small.” Tears well up in his eyes again. He doesn’t want to cry in front of someone as cool or as famous as Tony Stark, but he can’t help it. “Mr. Stark, is-is Uncle Ben g-going t-t-to die?” Peter screws up his face.

“Hey, kid, Peter.” Tony Stark stops walking, crouches down to be at Peter’s height, wipes the tears from the little boy’s cheeks. A few feet away, a busker has stopped playing his flute to stare avidly at them. “Look at me, kid.” Peter does so. Tony Stark looks determined. “I promise you your Uncle Ben won’t die, okay? I won’t let him, and you know me – I’m Tony Stark. I always get my way in the end.” Peter giggles weakly. Tony taps Peter’s chin. “Chin up, kid. No more tears, okay?”

Peter nods, embarrassed at his outburst, and wipes the tears and snot from his face.

“Would you like me to pinky swear?” Tony Stark asks. At first, Peter thinks Tony Stark is making fun of him, but the older man looks completely serious. “Would that make you feel better?”

“No.” Peter scrunches up his face, like _ew._ “Pinky swears are for babies.”

Tony Stark grins down at him and pats the musical tea set. “Well… you’re not wrong.”

Peter feels curiosity start to bubble up in him. “So does that mean Iron Man is a robot?”

Tony Stark side-eyes him. “He… _can_ be a robot.”

“But you didn’t build him to be a robot, did you, Mr. Stark?” Peter says. “You left a space for a person to go in there.”

Tony Stark’s facial muscles twitch funnily. “Anyone ever tell you you’re too smart for your own good, kid?”

“Yes.” Peter blinks up at him. “Is PEPPER an AI?”

“Caught that, did you?” Tony Stark gives him an almost proud look. “The answer to that is yes.”

“You named your AI after your wife?” Pepper screws up his face in adorable confusion.

“Why does everyone get hung up on that point?” Tony Stark looks exasperated. “You like asking the uncomfortable questions, don’t you? Yes, my new AI is named after my wife. Yes, it is a little creepy, and yes, they get along like a house on fire. I always find myself left out in the cold – I mean, c’mon… my wife and her digital namesake… they love ganging up on me.”

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Mr. Stark. I’m sorry.”

“God, you really mean that, don’t you?” Tony Stark ruffles Peter’s hair again. “So honest. Stop with the big brown eyes. You’re like Bambi.”

“Okay, Mr. Stark.”

“And kid?”

“Yeah, Mr. Stark?”

“Call me Tony.”

“Okay, Mr. Tony.”

Tony Stark sighs. “Baby steps,” he mumbles, almost to himself.

…

“May Parker?”

May doesn’t recognize the caller number. The voice is male, with a discursive way of speaking, smooth and lilting like someone who gives a lot of public speeches, obliquely familiar in a manner that makes her think she’s heard it before, with an overly-friendly nuance to it that she isn’t sure she likes.

“I’m not interested in anything you’re selling.”

“What?” The voice sounds bewildered. “No! Wait! Don’t hang up, May! I’m not a cold-caller. I want to talk to you about Ben and Peter Parker. They were in an accident.”

May freezes, muscles locking up, extremities going cold and numb. She flashbacks to the moment she and Ben got the news about Richard and Mary. The cracked leather of their old couch beneath her hands. The pitying expression on the policewoman’s face as she broke the news. _Mr. and Mrs. Parker, I’m very sort to have to inform you… they were in an accident…_

“MAY PARKER!” the voice hollers, so loudly she nearly drops the phone. “SNAP OUT OF IT!” he yells, in a voice so booming she can hear every word even as she holds the phone a foot in front of her face. Then, in a lower voice she has to strain to hear, “Poor choice of words there, in retrospect.” Then louder still, “DON’T PANIC! THEY’RE NOT DEAD!” Four nurses hurrying past in blue scrubs and hair masks give May strange looks.

May presses her phone so tightly to her ear the cold metal digs painfully into her flesh. Her heart hammers in her chest, like she’s just run a marathon. “I’m not panicking,” she says through her teeth. “Now tell me what exactly happened to my husband and nephew.”

“Well, when I say accident… I really meant a mugging turned shooting,” the man says, rather clumsily. “But they’re fine!” he hastily tacks on, as May’s knees wobble and threaten to give way. “They’re both fine. Or they will be. Your husband was injured, so I sent him ahead with my bodyguard.”

May’s voice trembles. “Injured.”

A beat of silence. “He was shot,” the man says, not unkindly. “Internal bleeding. A ruptured lung. But I’ve stabilized him. He should be fine.”

The floor is swaying beneath May’s feet. She thinks she’s going to be sick. “You a first-responder, or something?”

“Or something,” the man says shortly.

May presses quivering fingers against her cold lips. “And Peter?” she forces herself to ask.

“Fine!” the man assures her vehemently. “Completely uninjured. You wanna talk to him?” He doesn’t wait for her answer. “Your Aunt May wants a word, kiddo.” His voice is distant, moving away from the receiver.

A rustling noise as the phone changes hands, then Peter’s voice on the other end of the line. “Aunt May!”

May exhales hard through the nose. “Oh, Peter, baby, are you okay?”

“I’m okay, Aunt May.” Peter sounds shaken but not distressed.

“Where are you now, baby?”

“Mr. Tony’s taking me to the hospital,” Peter dutifully reports. “Mr. Tony’s really smart and nice and he helped Uncle Ben!” His voice turns tentative. “Aunt May, Uncle Ben _will_ be okay, won’t he?”

May swallows painfully against the lump in her throat, tries not to imagine Ben, injured and bleeding and near-dead. “Of course, he will, baby.” She injects some levity into her tone and hopes Peter can’t tell how forced it is through the connection. “You… just get here safely, okay, baby? Stay close to Mr. Tony.”

“Yes, Aunt May.”

“I love you, Peter.”

“Love you more, Aunt May.”

“Can you give the phone back to Mr. Tony now, Peter? I want to say something to him.”

“‘Kay.”

Tony’s voice returns. “May?”

“When you get to the hospital, can you bring Peter to the play area?” May says, in a forcibly even tone. Her composure is fraying. She wants to collapse bonelessly to the ground and scream _why is this happening to me again?_ But she can’t. She has an injured husband to save and a scared young nephew to worry about. “I don’t want him to go looking for me or Ben while he’s…” She falters. “While Ben-”

“May,” Tony says, low and solemn, with that same unnerving undertone of overfamiliarity. “Your husband will be fine, alright? I did all I could for him. You and Peter have nothing to worry about, but sure, I can do that.”

“Thank you, Tony,” May says with genuine gratitude, closing her eyes tiredly. Her body feels weak.

Apropos of nothing, Tony suddenly says, “You did good, May – you and Ben.” May blinks, taken aback. “He’s a great kid – really brave.”

“Yeah,” May says. “Yeah, he is.”

…

May should have figured it out when the imposing form of Iron Man marches into the hospital lobby and deposits Ben’s unconscious and bleeding body onto the nearest gurney.

But she doesn’t.

No, she’s too busy saving Ben’s life. There’s no time to be shocked, to think, to _breathe_ , even. There’s only Ben’s body on the operating table, his vitals lighting up the medical monitors. May is a surgical nurse, and she has a job to do. She’s a wife, and she needs to save her husband. And so she pushes out everything else but Ben and what she needs to do to save his life.

She doesn’t connect the dots, doesn’t link _Iron Man_ and _bodyguard_ and _Mr. Tony_ , doesn’t come to the obvious conclusion – not until after the surgery, when she’s changed out of her bloodstained scrubs, her eyes itchy and gummy with tiredness and stress, and she walks into the hospital’s play area to find her nephew building a Lego Death Star with Tony fucking Stark.

May just stands there, gawking. Tony Stark, in a formal suit probably costing more than May’s salary for an entire year, sits on his haunches, attaching the Lego satellite onto the exterior of the Death Star. Peter sticks close to him, practically cuddling against his side, gesturing with a little Lego Luke Skywalker, mouth moving animatedly. May can see how at ease her nephew is with Tony Stark. She can see the way Tony Stark looks at Peter, concern and fondness edged with a whole lot of protectiveness. As she watches, she sees Tony Stark say something she can’t make out, something that makes Peter burst into shrill giggles, laughing the way Peter hardly ever laughs in public because he thinks the snorting noises he makes are embarrassing.

She must stand there for almost ten minutes, just watching them interact, until Tony Stark glances up and catches her eye. May feels herself flushing at being caught staring. Stark pokes Peter in the ribs, nodding to May, and Peter jumps to his feet, sprinting across the room to throw himself at her, squeezing her tightly.

“Aunt May!” Peter says. Close up, she can see that his eyes are rimmed with red, like he’s been crying. “Is Uncle Ben-?”

“He’s okay.” May smooths down his hair, delayed relief and emotion making tears prick at her eyes. “He’s fine, baby.”

Peter’s face lights up. “Can I go see him?”

“Not yet,” May says, hating the way her words make Peter’s small shoulders slump dejectedly. “He’s very tired, Peter. He’s got a lot of healing left to do, and that takes up a lot of his energy. But maybe in a few days, he’ll be ready for visitors then.”

Peter squeezes her waist tightly. When Tony Stark approaches them, Peter shifts to the side, but doesn’t let go, looking between May and Tony with absolute trust on his face. May, for her part, finds herself utterly tongue-tied. What _does_ one say when a rich celebrity serendipitously saves your husband’s life?

“You must be Peter’s Aunt May.” Tony Stark smiles charmingly. He’s a lot shorter than May imagined he would be, and a lot less imposing, but all the same, there’s a quality about him that seems to make everyone else in the room invisible by comparison. “You know, it’s so hard for me to believe that you’re someone’s aunt.”

“We come in all shapes and sizes, you know,” May snips back.

His words and tone aren’t flirtatious or lecherous, just generally charming in a friendly not-trying-to-get-under-her-skirts way. It breaks the ice, and Tony Stark winks exaggeratedly at Peter, who hides his giggles into May’s uniform. She can feel his laughter tickling her stomach. Even if Stark hasn’t just saved Ben’s life, May would already be much more favorably disposed towards him, just because he makes Peter laugh.

“I’m Tony.” He holds out a hand.

“May.” She shakes his hand, feeling the cold band of his wedding ring.

She has no idea how much her life is about to change.

…

The first time Ben Parker meets Tony Stark, he’s bedridden and recovering from surgery. His last memory before waking up in this hospital room is of the mugger, the sound of the gun going off, the pain, the sound of Peter crying.

So he’s understandably chary and disoriented, and a helluva grateful, when May tells him of who it is that saved him. It’s not every day that one’s life gets saved by a celebrity billionaire, after all.

“Well, you’re surprisingly lucid for someone recovering from thoracoscopic surgery,” Tony Stark (“Call me Tony”, he insists) notes. “Can you see that small white dog standing in the corner over there?”

“Very funny,” Ben deadpans.

May levels them both with a stern look. “Behave.” She glares at Stark, who cowers a little, this makes Ben feel a little better. “Don’t harass my patient.”

“No harassing,” Stark promises, crossing himself.

“Mr. Tony!” Peter hops down from his perch on one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs. He gazes up at Stark with blatant hero-worship. “Did you come to visit Uncle Ben?”

“Sure thing, kiddo. And look, I even brought a get-well present!” Stark holds out a potted plant… fruit… egg… thing.

“Cool!” Peter says, totally raptured. “What is it?”

Ben supposes it could technically be called a vegetable plant, if vegetable plants bear blue egg-shaped fruit with a purple stem and yellow jagged lines across its surface. Frankly, Ben has seen snakes that look less poisonous.

“It’s food,” Stark says, as if it’s perfectly normal to expect someone to put the poisonous blue egg-fruits near their mouths.

Apparently, May feels the same way, because she pokes one of the blue egg-fruits in revolted fascination. “This is supposed to be food?”

“Courtesy of Maya Hansen and the Maria Stark Foundation,” Stark boasts. “This is going to be Stark Industries’ solution to end world hunger.”

Ben remembers seeing something like that on the news – the new subsidiary of Stark Industries, a think-tank called Resilient, co-lead by Maya Hansen and Ho Yinsen, churning out eco-friendly products and using all proceeds to fund outreach programs in war-torn regions.

“You want to try?” Stark wheedles.

They try. The blue egg-fruit is as big as a small fist, with a crunchy texture like an apple, so juicy the juice drips onto their chins, and they taste…

“Like chicken,” Peter supplies, mouth full.

“Not bad.” Ben chews slowly, lingering over the taste. “Could use a bit of salt. Maybe some garlic.”

“Maya tinkered with them.” Tony sets the plant pot onto the windowsill, where it can get plenty of sunlight. There’s a yellow smiley face emoji on the plant pot with a bandage wrapped around its head. “They can grow anywhere – Sub-Saharan Africa, Caribbean, Southern Asia – you name it. Like weeds, except useful and edible, with all the essential nutrients and vitamins. One hundred percent non-allergenic.” Stark waits until Peter is distracted, reaching for a second blue egg-fruit, before he speaks to Ben and May. “Any side-effects from the treatment?”

May looks alarmed, but she still has the wherewithal to keep her voice low and not alarm Peter. “Was there supposed to be?”

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose, like he’s got a headache. “There shouldn’t be,” he says lowly. “I’ve used this technology to patch up Iron Man during emergencies, and I have something like this in the works for SI’s medical division, but it’s experimental, very experimental.”

May looks piqued enough to breathe fire. “You used experimental tech on my husband?”

“He was bleeding out!” Stark says defensively. “It’s not like I make it a habit to subject random strangers to experimental technology. He was suffocating on his own blood, May, and I couldn’t very well let him die while the kid was watching on, could I? I was half-afraid to touch him at all!”

“May,” Ben says. He lays a hand on May’s arm, and she subsides. Ben looks back to Tony, who’s bristling, but he also looks a bit guilty. “I’m not blaming you, Tony,” Ben says. “But what exactly did you do to me?”

Stark sighs and holds out his hand. He’s wearing a very nice watch with a white-and-silver clockface. There’s no brand. Ben thinks it might be custom-made, perhaps by Stark himself. A hatch opens at the side of the watch, and a sort of silvery liquid seeps out, coiling into Stark’s hand, like metal in liquid form.

“These are nanites,” Tony explains. “Tiny robots smaller than the eye can see. They can be used to make anything – armor, weapons, an emergency medical kit – what I did was use them as a kind of sealant for your lungs.”

“And those nanites,” Ben says hesitantly, suppressing the convulsive urge to look down at his bandaged chest. “Are they still inside me?”

“What?” Tony blinks. “No, definitely not. The nanites are all gone. Nothing inside Ben Parker but Ben Parker, but I have no idea how your body might react to what it might think are foreign bodies. There’s a ninety percent chance that you’ll be completely fine, but I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t check to be sure. Any symptoms? Any unusual pains?”

Ben leaves May and Stark to it, and helps himself to a second bite of the blue egg-fruit. They’re really not that bad.

“Mr. Tony?” Peter pipes up suddenly.

“Yeah, kid?”

“Does it only have one flavor, or do they all taste like chicken?”

“They’re supposed to have only one flavor, Pete.” Stark ruffles Peter’s hair. “The point here is to solve world hunger, not to make things worse for the farmers at the bottom of the pyramid.”

Peter pouts up at him. “I don’t understand.”

“Tell you what, I promise to give you a lecture about the finer points of business ethics and economics when you’re old enough to understand it, okay?”

Peter sulks. “I’m old enough to understand it _now_.”

May is flipping feverishly through Ben’s medical chart. “It… really does seem like there are no side effects.”

“I didn’t think there were,” Stark admits. “But I had to check, just in case.” He nods at Ben. “You know, I almost missed you. You were lying out of sight. You weren’t making any noise. I would have just walked right past that alleyway if I hadn’t seen-” Tony cuts himself off, glancing fleetingly at Peter.

“You saw Peter crying?” Ben says.

“I saw him crying silently,” Tony says. May gives him a bemused glance. “When kids cry, it’s because they want attention. When they cry silently, it means they can’t stop.” He shrugs. “Any parent knows that.” Something in Tony’s expression seems to steel, edges hardening, his eyes like stone. “Dozens of parents were walking right past him...”

Ben thinks about the implications. He’s not a hateful man, but when he thinks about Peter crying, heartbroken and scared and hysterical, and imagines everyone just walking right past him, pretending they don’t see a frightened eight-year-old boy needing help. It’s almost enough to fill his heart with hate.

Then he thinks, _oh, right, Stark’s a parent, isn’t he?_

He remembers when the news broke on _that_. For days, every news outlet only seemed to have one headline: _TONY STARK – FROM BILLIONAIRE PLAYBOY TO HOUSE-HUSBAND AND STAY-AT-HOME DAD?_

“Mr. Tony?” Peter asks inquisitively. “You’re talking about your daughter Morgan, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.” Tony ruffles Peter’s hair. “You kind of remind me of her, you know. Small and stubborn and smart. And much too brave for your own good.”

“I’m not that small,” Peter says sullenly. He looks down and then adds, in almost a whisper. “And I’m not brave.”

Ben and May exchange frowns, but Stark beats them to the punch. “Now why would you say that, kid?” he asks.

Peter turns rubescent. “I cried, Mr. Tony. That’s not very brave.”

“I’ve seen Iron Man cry before,” Tony says flippantly. “Does that mean he’s not brave?”

“That’s different. That’s _Iron Man_.” Peter looks ashamed. “He’s a superhero, and he rescued Uncle Ben. I couldn’t even do that.” Peter hugs himself, looking small. “I was just scared.”

“Okay, kid.” Tony Stark puts his hands on his thighs, wearing a queer smile. “Let me tell you something about being scared. When you’re scared, you’re so alert, it feels like you can slow down time. When you’re scared, so much blood and oxygen flow through your brain, they’re like rocket fuel.” He taps Peter on the forehead, and Ben’s nephew stares up at him, eyes round. “What’s wrong with scared? Scared is a superpower. You can run faster and fight harder and jump higher.” A bittersweet, nostalgic smile flirts across Stark’s face. “You can lift a building with your bare hands.” His dark eyes focus intently on Peter. “You were scared, huh? What is it the young people say these days? Duh? Well, _duh_ , kid! Your Uncle Ben was hurt, of course, you were scared. Only a complete sociopath wouldn’t be.” Tony taps Peter on the chin. “Head high, kid. You were scared, but you were brave too. You did good.” Tony squeezes Peter’s shoulder. Peter beams up at him with naked admiration.

 _Fatherhood suits Tony Stark_ , Ben finds himself inadvertently thinking. The former playboy’s razor edges have been dulled; callousness worn down to something gentler, kinder, more nurturing. Stark seems to know exactly how to handle Peter’s brand of vulnerability and insecurity. He’s firm but not harsh, encouraging but not smothering. And Peter obviously already adores him.

“Do you think I could meet Morgan, Mr. Tony?” Peter is asking, which jolts Ben back into paying awareness.

Ben and May exchange apprehensive looks. It’s one thing for a celebrity billionaire CEO to happen to save someone and be friendly to that man’s nephew. It’s quite another for that celebrity to let that nephew near his infant daughter.

“Peter, sweetie,” May begins timidly. “I’m not sure if Mr. Tony would-”

“Hey, it’s okay, May.” Stark immediately sets her mind at rest. “Kid,” he addresses Peter. “I would love for you and Morgan to get to know one another.” His tone is warm and completely sincere, almost fatherly. “But Morgan’s still pretty small. She’s only just learned how to walk, and she’s not very good at talking either – just one or two words. And honestly, I think a kid your age might find her pretty boring.”

“I don’t… think she… sounds… boring,” Peter says unconvincingly.

“Tell you what,” Tony suggests. “Why don’t we wait for Morgan to get a bit older, and then we can arrange a playdate.” Peter’s face lights up. “ _If_ your aunt and uncle approve,” Tony asserts.

Peter turns large pleading eyes at Ben, who caves like a wet noodle.

Who can say no to that face?

Ben has even less idea of what to think of Tony Stark after that first meeting.

He decides to go ahead and like him anyway.

…

**2011**

Tony’s left arm is numb. He gingerly sets down his Stark-phone before he can drop it. The voice of the captain of Howard Stark’s Arctic expedition crew echoing in his ears.

_We found him, sir. Captain America. Frozen._

And then, the real kicker:

_What would you like us to do with the body?_

Tony has forgotten, is the thing. He’s submerged himself absolutely in his second chance at life, grabbing onto it with both hands. He took the chance to make things right with both Yinsen and Maya. He cut off HYDRA at its knees. He tries to be a good father to Morgan. He’s hopefully made Peter’s childhood a happier one this time around. He’s married to the most supercalifragilisticexpialidocious woman in the world (what can he say? Morgan loves Mary Poppins). He has a healthy and balanced work-superhero-social life, and his near-death experiences have been at an all-time low.

And he doesn’t give the Avengers in general and Steve Rogers in particular a second thought. None of them have any place in Tony’s paragon of ideal life.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

The last time, he dropped the mess that was Rogers’ frozen ass right into SHIELDRA’s greedy hands, keen to wash his hands entirely of Howard’s Stark’s greatest experiment. And SHIELD swiftly repaid him by turning Rogers into an uncompromising, hypercritical, sanctimonious, holier-than-thou, duplicitous, lying liar who kept lies.

Tony thought he was past this, is the thing.

He thought he has, not forgiven Rogers (he’ll never forgive Rogers, Rogers who lied about his _mother, his mother, his mother, never, never, never, liar, liar, liar_ ), but at least, has moved past it, accepted it, and though he knows unequivocally he’ll never trust Rogers again, he thought he could tolerate and stomach fighting alongside him, so long as the fate of the universe is at stake. He thought he could be indifferent, objective.

Turns out, he’s wrong.

What a surprise.

The anger he feels is immediate, instantaneous, just as lucid and vivid as what he felt when he watched the footage of Barnes choking Maria Stark to death, when Steve Rogers looked at him and said ‘yes’, the raw and gritty fury that flooded his body and turned his vision red when they started to fight, the visceral and deep-seated betrayal, as if all that happened only yesterday. The bitterness and acrimony, the _hatred_ , so sharp and cutting Tony can _taste_ it, rancid and sour, at the back of his throat, like blood in his mouth.

It’s all he can do to resist the urge to commit homicide, to don the Iron Man armor and fly off to the Arctic to reduce Steve Rogers into a literal puddle, to pick up the phone and call back the expedition crew to tell them to dump the body back into the ocean. _Let him rot in the ice._ Tony wants to spit, ugly and acrimonious. _Let him stay frozen for another seventy years._

 _Why do we need him anyway? What good is a man with a metal frisbee compared to gods and monsters and aliens. Being a super-soldier didn’t stop Rogers from dying along with the rest of the world. We have T’Challa and Wakanda, we have Carol Danvers, we have the Hulk, we have Thor._ He thinks, virulent and rancorous. This line of thinking, once thought of, latches onto his brain tightly, odiously compelling. _Why do we need Captain America? What is the **point** of him?_

 _I don’t want him here._ He thinks, petty and cruel and bilious. _I don’t want him in my time. I don’t want to work with him as Iron Man. I don’t want him near my wife or my daughter. I don’t want to be in the same building as him, or in the same city. Heck, I don’t even want him on the same planet._

_I don’t want to hear his voice. I don’t want to speak to him. I don’t even want to **look** at him._

_I just want him gone._

Tony thinks all that, then he comes to his senses, like waking up from a very surreal dream, and he feels nauseated, chokes down bile.

So. No.

Obviously not over that.

Not at all.

It’s like he’s kicked over a pretty, shiny rock, only to find, lying beneath it, an eldritch horror straight out of Lovecraft, something slimy and tentacled and too repellant to describe, something fetid and decomposing and too nightmarish to be exposed in the light of day, a demonic manifestation living unnoticed and festering in the darkness, lurking where he can’t see. Too hellacious to contemplate, and so Tony’s mind shies away from it altogether.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

These are not the thoughts a good man should be having, nor what a superhero like Iron Man should be thinking. Tony is discerningly aware of that fact, and then he thinks those thoughts anyway.

“Shit,” Tony says.

Right behind him, a small voice – bright, curious, cheerful – chirps, “Shit.”

Tony jumps, swiveling in his chair to find Morgan sitting on her haunches on the floor, giggling and staring up at him with clear bright eyes.

How long has she been there?

Tony presses a finger to his lips, then whispers, “What are you doing up, little miss?”

“Shit,” Morgan says again, peals of bell-like laughter escaping her.

“No, we don’t say that,” Tony says, aghast. Oh, Pepper is going to kill him. “Only Mommy says that word. She coined it. It belongs to her.”

“Why you up?” Morgan asks with a hint of a lisp that Tony finds adorable.

“Cause I got some important shit going on here,” Tony says. Morgan pouts at him. “What do you think? No, I got something on my mind.”

“Juice pops?” Morgan asks guilelessly.

Their daughter is taking far too much after Pepper. “Sure was. That’s extortion.” Tony probably shouldn’t sound as proud as he does. “Great minds think alike.” Hand in hand, Tony slowing his steps so that Morgan’s small toddling steps can keep up, they make their way to the kitchen. “Juice pops, exactly what was on my mind.”

God, the terrible twos. Tony can’t wait until she turns three. He manages to corral Morgan into bed after only one orange flavored popsicle without any tantrums, practically an achievement.

Tony holds the sticky popsicle stick in one hand, wipes Morgan’s mouth with the sleeve of his grey sweater. “That face.” He puts his hand on her face. “Goes there.” He presses her head down onto the pillow.

“Tell story?” Morgan pleads, folding her little arms on top of her bright-pink Mickey Mouse themed bedsheets.

“A story?” Tony shifts on his knees. He’s too old to be kneeling on the floor for extended periods of time. “Once upon a time, Maguna went to bed. The end.”

“ _Good_ story,” Morgan insists.

“Come on, you don’t think that’s a good story?” Tony feigns affront. Morgan giggles, shaking her head. “Okay then, how about… an Iron Man story?” Morgan nods eagerly. She loves Iron Man almost as much as she loves Mickey Mouse and Mary Poppins. Oh, to be downgraded in favor of a cartoon rodent and a woman with a flying umbrella. “Once upon a time…” Tony hesitates, then on a whim, he says, “Iron Man had a friend.”

“A superhero friend?” Morgan guesses.

“A superhero friend,” Tony confirms. “This friend… let’s call him Nomad… he was _almost_ as good as Iron Man,” he says with great import, looking solemnly into Morgan’s eyes so that she knows how serious he is. Morgan giggles again. “Everyone liked Nomad. They thought he was brave and good and honest, and just an all-around boy scout… but Nomad kept a secret.”

“A secret?” Morgan perks up. “From who?”

“From Iron Man,” Tony says, and his daughter gasps. “He kept this secret for years – the whole time they were friends.”

“Lied?” Morgan says, pushing her thumb into her mouth.

“He lied.” Tony runs a hand through his daughter’s long dark hair. “He wasn’t honest. And when Iron Man found out, he was angry.” He stops for a moment, then forces out. “And he was hurt.”

“And then what?” Morgan asks avidly.

“And then they had a big fight. A _verbal_ fight,” Tony quickly adds. “A… shall we say, _athletic_ argument. They both used a lot of nasty words. And because of that, they stopped being friends.”

“Oh, no,” Morgan says dolefully.

“But after that, Nomad got in trouble.” Tony plants his elbow onto Morgan’s blue pillows, which portrays Pluto the yellow cartoon dog. “He was frozen in a block of ice, and only Iron Man knew where he was, only Iron Man could help.”

“Did Iron Man help?” Morgan asks. She’s starting to get drowsy, eyelids drooping. “Were they friends again?”

“Do _you_ think he should help?” Tony wonders aloud. “Do you think they should be friends again?”

Morgan thinks about that for a second. “Yes. No.”

“What’s that, little miss?” Tony tweaks her nose. “Yes or no?”

“Iron Man is superhero. Superheroes help,” Morgan says simply, but she isn’t done yet. “Nomad is bad friend.” She yawns hugely. Her tongue is orange. “Find other friends. Better friends.” Her thumb slips out of her mouth. “Like War Machine.”

From the mouths of babies.

“Shit, you’re really smart, aren’t you?” Tony says, heart so full he feels like it might burst. “You’re right. War Machine _is_ a good friend.”

“I _am_ smart,” Morgan agrees.

“I love you tons.” Tony kisses his daughter on the forehead.

“Love you three thousand,” Morgan says, slurring the words a little. She looks up at Tony with a child’s blind faith in her parent, and Tony marvels once again at how such a tiny person can make him feel so full of love.

His mouth silently forms a _wow._ He puts the popsicle stick in his mouth and turns off the bedside lamp. “Three thousand. That’s _crazy,_ ” he says around the wooden stick in his mouth. “Go to bed or I’ll sell all your toys. Night-night.”

“Night-night, daddy.”

Tony finds Pepper where any sane person would be at almost midnight – in bed, curled up underneath the grey silk duvet, fast asleep. Tony spoons her from behind, winding an arm around her waist. His wife stirs a little at his touch.

“We made a really smart kid, didn’t we?” Tony says, appreciatively and utterly without preamble. “God, I think she’s going to be cleverer than I am.”

The pillow smothers whatever sound Pepper makes, turning it nonsensical. Tony thinks she might be saying ‘ _go to sleep, Tony_ ’ _._

“And not that it’s a competition, but she loves me _three thousand_ ,” Tony says smugly. He’s preening, just a little, a totally non-excessive amount.

“Does she now?” Pepper mumbles sleepily.

“You were somewhere on the low… six to nine hundred range,” Tony informs her.

“Tony.” Pepper shoves a silken pillow in his face. “ _Sleep._ ”

…

Interlude: Steve Rogers

“So this Dr. Banner was trying to replicate the serum they used on me?” Steve Rogers asks, as he browses through the electronic file marked _Avengers._

Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, comes to stand next to him, looking over his shoulder at the video he’s opened. She doesn’t even need to have a handhold. The Quinjet flies _that_ smoothly, the engines are almost completely silent, barely perceptible except to Steve’s super-soldier hearing. Frankly, it’s pretty disconcerting, and it makes him feel homesick. Time-sick?

“A lot of people were.” Natasha puts both hands on her hips. The all-black suit she wears hugs every curve. “You were the world’s first superhero. Banner thought gamma radiation might be the key to unlocking Erskine’s original formula.”

The video playing on the screen shows a large green giant with bulging muscles, like bowling balls have been shoved beneath its corded skin. The green giant gives a reverberating roar and in one leap, bounds to the camera. The video fades to grey static.

“Didn’t really go his way, did he?” Steve says bleakly.

A faint grimace flits across Natasha’s face, and Steve, for the life of him, can’t tell whether the emotion is authentic or masqueraded for his benefit. It brings his guard up. “Not so much. When he’s not that thing though, guy’s like a latter-day Isaac Newton.” She crosses her arms. “He’s almost as smart as Tony Stark.”

Steve swipes across the screen, accessing the rest of the video files – Hulk, Black Widow, Hawkeye, Thor, Black Panther, Falcon, himself, all marked as _Potential Recruits_ … until he stops at Iron Man, his eyes lingering on the words right beneath it: _Independent Ally_. “Is Stark part of the Avengers?” he asks. “I mean, not as a fighter, but if he’s as smart as everyone says he is…”

“Director Fury insists he’s smarter.” Natasha chuckles. “His technology is generations ahead of what the rest of the planet is capable of producing. But, no, he isn’t. Fury’s been barking up that tree since he kickstarted the Avengers Initiative four years ago. But no, Stark isn’t interested.”

“Why not? If it meant saving lives…”

“The trick to sealing with Stark is, what you see is what you get.” Natasha shrugs, short red curls bouncing with the movement. “He’s not that deep. Wears his heart on his sleeve.” She reaches down to tap at an image on the screen, enlarging it. It’s a blurry photo of Stark, standing on a lavishly lit stage, gesturing widely with his arms. His left sleeve has ridden up, exposing the very literal HEART on his wrist – a soul-mark. “Look back far enough in Tony Stark’s history and you get a road pockmarked with betrayals – Tiberius Stone, Sunset Bain, Obadiah Stane. After his godfather sold him out to the Ten Rings and got arrested for dealing under the table, Stark apparently decided he had enough of trusting people. He’s a family man through and through now, and he has very exacting standards of who he can and can’t trust.” Natasha sounds wry. “SHIELD doesn’t make the cut.”

“What about Iron Man?”

“Legally, the suit’s private property, and Iron Man’s not a superhero, not technically. He’s a bodyguard employed by Stark, and when it comes to his wife and daughter, Stark’s protective to the point of paranoia, not to mention neurotic. Iron Man’s an individualist, not a team player.”

Another picture of Tony Stark, an attractive red-haired woman who must be his wife, and a little girl around three years old at a funfair, accompanied by the red-and-gold Iron Man. The redheaded woman is holding a giant stuffed bunny. The little girl is perched on Iron Man’s shoulders, face stained blue from cotton candy. Iron Man has three balloons tied around his arm. The balloons are red-and-gold Iron Man faces.

“Stark does Director Fury the occasional favor,” Natasha informs him. “Destroying stolen weapon caches in terrorists’ hands, search and rescue, and the military has War Machine.” A video file portraying a metal suit much like Iron Man’s, except bulkier and in gunmetal grey, marked as another _Independent Ally_. “The pilot is James Rhodes. He’s Air Force, and he used to be the military liaison to Stark Industries, now he flies a suit. Rhodes and Stark went to MIT together, and they’ve known each other for… more than two decades.”

Steve can read between the lines of what she’s saying. “So you’re saying he’s loyal to Stark?”

“Rhodes spent three months scouring the Afghanistan desert for Stark, kept on looking for him long after everyone else gave him up for dead. He was nearly stripped of his rank as Colonel.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” Steve remembers when he heard the news of Bucky captured by HYDRA. Remembers the single-minded abandon to which he pursued his mission to rescue his best friend, how he stole a plane and jumped into an active combat zone with no parachute, no plan, no backup. “I mean, they’ve known each other since they were barely older than kids.” Steve thinks he might like Rhodes. He’s not too sure about Stark. “But he’s not an Avenger either?”

“Like you said, Rhodes is loyal to Stark first, the Air Force second, which would put SHIELD on a very distant third. War Machine is teaming up with us because intelligence tells us Loki plans to use the Tesseract to take over the planet. Planetary threats sort of trump interpersonal conflict.”

Steve enlarges another image. This appears to be a digital clipping of the front page of a newspaper, dominated by two pictures. On the left, a Stark with fewer grey hairs and lines on his face has both arms around two skimpily dressed woman. His pupils are blown wide and a bottle dangles from his fingers. His shirt is partway unbuttoned, exposing the red hickey on his neck. On the right, Stark in a jogging suit, pushing a buggy. The headlines read: _TONY STARK – FROM BILLIONAIRE PLAYBOY TO HOUSE-HUSBAND AND STAY-AT-HOME DAD?_

“You know, I knew Howard when he was young and single,” Steve says nostalgically. “I never imagined him getting married, never mind having a kid.”

Natasha winches delicately. “Maybe don’t mention Howard Stark where his son can hear you – unless you want a surefire way to piss him off.” Steve glances at her, mystified. “Tony Stark didn’t have an easy relationship with his dad,” Natasha says apologetically. “Officially, Director Fury wants you to keep your distance, keep away from Stark’s subversive influence.”

“And unofficially?”

Natasha appraises him. “SHIELD owes Tony Stark, big time,” she says bluntly. “Stark rooted out our HYDRA problem. _And_ Fury trusts him.” Natasha shakes her head in apparent stupefaction. “And we’re talking about a man who doesn’t trust anyone. Fury wants to stay on Stark’s good side, which means you have to step lightly because Stark…” She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, gives him a droll look. “He is not your biggest fan.”

…

**2012**

“Chow-time!” Tony drums his hands together. “Maguna!”

The sound of giggling fills the playroom, but Morgan stays hidden inside her blue starry play-tent. The floor of the room is papered over with in bright blue stripes, with a fluffy white carpet. Fluffy white pouffes and faux tree stumps serve as chairs. There’s a miniature climbing wall set against the far-right wall with a mat at the bottom to cushion any fall. The windows are waist-high, so Morgan can look out of them easily. Coloring and picture books are on white bookshelves. The formerly white walls have been scribbled over by tiny hands and decorated with crayon drawings.

Tony plops himself down on the plastic tree stump, picking up a floppy squirrel toy discarded on the floor. “Morgan Happy Stark, you want some lunch?”

Morgan emerges from the play-tent, wearing a blue-and-gold Iron Man-esque helmet on her head. She’s put on a red winter mitten and attached a toy repulsor to her palm, which she points at her dad. “Define lunch or be disintegrated.”

“Okay.” Tony raises both hands in surrender. “You should not be wearing that, okay? That is part of a special anniversary gift I’m making for Mom.” He kisses the helmet’s cheek, taking it off his daughter’s head. Morgan’s brown hair is all messy and tousled. “You thinking about lunch?” He strokes his daughter’s hair. “You want a handful of crickets and a bit of lice?” he teases.

“No.” Morgan pouts adorably at him.

“That’s what you want.” Tony holds up the Rescue helmet. “How did you get this?”

Morgan widens her brown eyes innocently. “The lab.”

“Really?” Tony squints at her playfully. “Were you _looking_ for it?”

“No,” Morgan says, guilelessly playing with her hair. “I found it though.”

Tony makes an introspective humming noise in the back of his throat. “You like going into the lab, huh? So does daddy.” He hoists Morgan into his arms, perching her on his lap. “It’s fine, actually. Mom never wears anything I buy her.”

Morgan squirms in his arms. She touches the Rescue helmet again, her fingers leaving sticky smudges against the reflective gold surface. “Is Mom gonna be your sidekick?”

Tony laughs so hard he starts coughing. “Uh, _no_. Don’t ever call Mommy my sidekick again, or she will kill me, and then you won’t have a Daddy.”

He tickles the bottom of his daughter’s foot, and Morgan shrieks with laughter, kicking her little feet away. “Daddy, no!”

“Mommy is my partner,” Tony tells Morgan, as his daughter wiggles until she’s facing him. “She watches my back.”

“But what about me?” Morgan’s eyes are big and brown and brimming with hope.

“You?” Tony looks at her blankly.

“ _I_ want to be your partner,” Morgan proclaims animatedly. Tony chortles. “Don’t laugh.” Morgan’s lower lip wobbles. She looks hurt. “I’d be a great partner.”

“You would be awesome.” Tony’s cheeks hurt with the effort of holding back his mirth. “And if I let you, I would be a terrible dad.”

“Fine.” Morgan sulks. “Mom can be your partner. She’s smart.”

“She sure is.” Tony kisses his daughter’s cheek, holds her tightly. “I’m surrounded by smart women.”

The phone in his pocket rings, buzzing against Morgan’s right foot and making her giggle. Fishing it out, he sees that it’s Nick. He sets Morgan down and watches her scurry to the climbing wall.

“Any news about Maya?” Tony asks, the moment the call connects.

“This isn’t about Hansen, Stark.” Fury’s voice is so strained it hardly sounds like his.

Tony gets a forbidding, sinister feeling. He’s sure he won’t like the next words out of Fury’s mouth.

As usual, he’s right.

“It’s Loki.” Fury coughs. Tony wonders if he’s injured. “He’s on Earth, and he has the Tesseract.”

…

“I think it’s about the mechanics. Iridium. What do they need the iridium for?”

“It’s a stabilizing agent.” Four men walk onto the Helicarrier flight deck. Director Fury, a dark-skinned man in a black tack-suit, another dark-skinned man in a colonel’s uniform – Bruce recognizes them from his briefing packet, Prince T’Challa of Wakanda and Colonel James Rhodes. There’s a fourth man that Bruce has never met, but even on the run and in hiding for the better part of four years, Bruce still recognizes the infamous Tony Stark. “Means portal won’t collapse on itself like it did at SHIELD. Also, means the portal can open as wide and stay open as long as Loki wants. The rest of the raw materials, Loki can get his hands on pretty easily. Only major component he still needs is a power source of high energy density, something to kickstart the cube.” Stark meets Fury’s eyes as he says this, both men exchanging an indecipherable look.

“Does Loki need any particular kind of power source?” Captain Rogers asks in that deep voice of his. The captain sits on one side of a large triangular table, between the Falcon and Black Widow. Stark’s expression seems to tighten, eyes growing cold and proud. He doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t look at Rogers.

Bruce intervenes before the silence can grow too fraught. “He’d have to heat the cube to a hundred and twenty million Kelvin just to break through the Coulumb barrier.”

The full force of Tony Stark’s attention redirects itself to Bruce. Bruce isn’t going to lie. It’s a lot off-putting, like Stark is x-raying him with his eyes, which are dark and glossy and unreadable, like volcanic rock. “Unless Selvig has figured out how to stabilize the quantum tunneling effect.”

“Well, if he could do that, he could achieve heavy iron fusion at any reactor on the planet.” Bruce grows more confident as he speaks. Putting the Hulk in a team is like throwing a kitten into the deep end of a pool and telling it to swim. This, debating thermonuclear astrophysics with another genius, this Bruce knows how to do.

“Finally.” Stark gestures at Bruce with one sweeping arm. “Someone who speaks English.” The wide smile spreading across Stark’s face is astonishing, if only because it changes his countenance completely – cold and proud and aloof to something almost warm and tangible, from a distant star to a sun.

“Is that what just happened?” Rogers asks. Stark’s eyebrow twitches violently, as if every word from Rogers’ mouth is a poke in his eye.

“It’s good to meet you, Dr. Banner.” Stark acts like Rogers hasn’t said anything at all, regarding Bruce with a glimmer of respect in his dark eyes. “Your work on anti-electron collisions is unparalleled.”

“Thanks,” Bruce says. He can’t help feeling gratified. It’s become so seldom for someone to acknowledge his academic accomplishments as Bruce Banner after he became the Hulk.

“Nick tells me we’ll be working together to track down the cube,” Stark says. Bruce notes the amicable way Stark addresses Fury, wonders how long the two have known each other. “You’re going to love Potts Tower. Top ten floors, all R&D. It’s candy land.”

“Potts Tower?” Bruce says, flat-footed. “I don’t understand. I thought I was supposed to be working here.”

“In close quarters with Loki and a mind-controlling scepter?” Fury says with wintry amusement. “Hah. I’m not as stupid as he thinks I am. No, Dr. Banner, you and Stark will be taking your search for the cube far, far away from him, and you’ll be taking the scepter along with you.”

Sam Wilson straightens in his seat. “You think Loki wants the Hulk?”

“He wants _something_ here,” Fury says, pinning them all with his beady one-eyed stare. “He could have whopped all your asses in Germany without breaking a sweat. Didn’t someone tell you about his showdown with Thor in New Mexico last year?” He nods to the God of Thunder. “They had a grudge match that levelled a small town. So why did he let himself get captured?”

“C’mon, guys, this is the God of _Lies_ we’re talking about here,” Stark says, hands in his pockets. “This whole thing’s an elaborate artifice. Tricks and trickery are his whole schtick. Maybe he’s hoping to mind-whammy the Hulk, maybe he wants to turn him against us. I say, best not to test that theory, right?”

“Take Banner. Take the scepter,” Fury tells Stark. “I’ll talk to the Council. We have to start the evacuation of New York immediately. Minimize collateral damage.”

“Woah.” Barton starts a little. “Hold on a minute. New York? What’s happening in New York? Why are we evacuating?”

The Wakandan prince and Colonel Rhodes shift uneasily on their feet. Stark and Fury exchanges tacit looks.

“ _A warm light for all mankind,_ ” Fury quotes. “Loki’s jab about the cube.”

Agent Romanoff nods, leery. “We heard it.”

“It was meant for me,” Stark declares. Bruce has a feeling he and Fury already had this discussion earlier. “I mean, my Tower was all over the news.”

“The Potts Tower?” Rogers says. “That big ugly-”

Stark talks right over Rogers without showing any indication he even notices Rogers’ existence. “It’s powered by an arc reactor – self-sustaining energy source, unlimited clean energy. That building will run itself forever. I’m kind of the only name in clean energy right now.”

The Wakanda Prince speaks up then. “A power source of high energy density to kick start the cube, he said.” T’Challa nods at Stark. The prince’s accent is thick and exotic, the vowels rolling off his tongue almost gracefully. He has a poised and elegant bearing about him, a commanding presence. “What better power source than the arc reactor?”

“Loki wants to make things personal,” Stark throws out glibly.

“That’s not the point,” Rogers snaps.

“That _is_ the point,” Rhodes disagrees. “That’s Loki’s point.”

“He knows he has to take us out to win,” Stark addresses Rhodes. “ _That’s_ what he wants. He wants to beat us. He wants to be seen doing it. He wants an audience.” Stark turns to Thor, who’s listening in agitated silence. “You know your brother. Am I wrong about him?”

Thor shakes his head.

“Right,” Wilson says in understanding. “We caught his act in Stuttgart.”

Stark waves a hand dismissively. “That’s just previews. This is opening night.” He claps his hands together, starting to pace. “And Loki? He’s a full-tilt diva. He wants flowers. He wants parades. He wants a monument to the skies with his name plastered on it.” Everyone stares at Stark. “Yes, I know what you’re all thinking. Stones. Glass houses. The irony.”

“Son of a bitch,” Agent Coulson says.

“But arc reactor technology is everywhere nowadays,” Wilson points out. “The Repulsor Cars-”

“Have been programmed to self-destruct if anyone tinkers with the power source. You’d think after all that effort of keeping my weapons away from the wrong hands I’d risk putting thousands of potential bombs on the market?” Stark says scathingly. “No, the security protocols are foolproof.”

“I do not understand,” Thor rumbles. “Did you not build this arc reactor in a cave? With a box of scraps?”

“He’s Tony Stark, man,” Rhodes says, stalwart. “Loki is _not_ Tony Stark.”

Stark crosses his arms, querulous. “Are we done yapping? Because I have to get my wife and daughter out of New York, you know… _the city about to be invaded by an alien army?_ We’re done right?”

“We could use Iron Man with us,” Fury says. “He’d be a great asset to the Avengers.”

Stark shakes his head staunchly. “You have War Machine to provide air support. Iron Man stays where he is – with my wife, with my daughter. Protecting the Earth from alien invasions. Sounds important. Good for you. But Nick, you know my priorities. Stop Loki, I hope, yes. Keep what I found – I _have_ to, at _all_ cost.” There’s emotion on Stark’s face, something candid and ferocious and potentially savage, like a caged lion on the prowl. Bruce can tell he means every word. “And maybe not die trying, would be nice.”

Fury offers his hand. “Sounds like a deal.”

“Nick. T’Challa.” Stark shakes their hands, then clasps Rhodes’ arm. “Rhodey.”

“Tones.”

“Standard promise,” Stark says.

“I’ll come back,” Rhodes says. “Alive. Unmaimed. Not crippled.” Bruce thinks the last one might be an inside joke. Stark’s face spasms queerly, as if he can’t decide whether to laugh or to grimace. “I’ll see you for shawarma after. Tell Morgan Uncle Rhodey says hi.”

“Square deal,” Stark says, a tight set to the corners of his mouth. “Fight hard.” He turns to Bruce. “Shall we play, Bruce?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things happening behind the scenes:  
> 1\. Bucky Barnes is currently in Wakanda, getting the Winter Soldier programming out of his head.  
> 2\. Tony used Extremis to remove the arc reactor sometime in 2010.  
> 3\. No one knows Tony is Iron Man except Pepper, Rhodey, Happy, Fury, the Wakandan royal family. Morgan might have guessed. She's a smart kid.


	3. Bruce, Morgan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own anything.
> 
> That said, I want to make something clear. This will not be a fic bashing either Team Cap or Team Iron Man. I could never get behind the way some authors do one or the other. It's too one dimensional, too black and white. Both sides had good intentions. Both sides made mistakes. Humans are flawed. No one is perfect. From Chapter 4 onward, this fic might seem like it's anti-Team Cap or at least pro-Team Iron Man - it's not. I'm writing from Tony's perspective (most of the time, anyway), and he's anti-Team Cap and pro-Team Iron Man. Personally, I'm anti-Accords, but Tony Stark is my favorite character. I like to think they balance each other out.
> 
> This will be an eventual reconciliation fic, and when I say eventual, I mean really, really, really eventual - like at least another thirty thousand words eventual. Tony has issues, guys. He needs time to work them out. Tony doesn't know everything (even though he thinks he does), and there's a lot of Steve's motivations that he's just not privy to. (Do you guys think it's possible for someone to hold a grudge for two decades? Because I do. Poor Steve. Sorry not sorry.)
> 
> This is my first fight scene (if you can call it a fight scene. I know where my strengths lie people, and they aren't in writing fight scenes) - so be gentle with me.

Bruce Banner walks out of the elevator into the penthouse of Potts Tower, and almost instantly steps on a Barbie doll and breaks off its head.

“Oh, shit!” Stark picks up the pieces. The Barbie has a pair of sunglasses on its decapitated blonde head. “You just decollated Christie!” Bruce starts to stutter an apology, but Tony waves him off. “No worries, Green Bean. I’ll fix it. Morgan will never notice the difference.”

As if magically summoned by the sound of her name, they hear the pattering of tiny feet, before a little girl, three years old or thereabouts, comes running around the corner. Her brown hair has been done in two braided pigtails, with glittery pink and purple ribbons. She skids down the corridor towards them in bright green socks patterned with candy canes.

She’s also completely naked.

“DADDY!” she shrieks.

Tony hastily hides the headless Barbie doll behind his back, just in time for his daughter to collide into him, hugging his legs and burying her face in his stomach. Tony hands Christie the Headless Barbie doll to Bruce, who hides them behind his own back guiltily.

“Morgan!” Tony crouches down to give his daughter a big hug. “Where are your clothes?”

“I _hate_ clothes!” Morgan pouts, sulky.

“Morgan!” A woman stalks into view. Her hair is red, the hue a cross between strawberry-blonde and wine-red, and tied back in an askew ponytail falling over her left shoulder. She also has a very distinguished face shape. Tony’s wife is brandishing a red-and-white stripped dress with a grey rabbit on the front, the way Bruce’s father used to brandish a cane. “Clothes!”

It’s not the most auspicious way to meet a colleague’s family.

Mrs. Stark (please call me Pepper) introduces herself to Bruce while Tony tries to coax, cajole, and beg his daughter into putting on the stripped rabbit dress ("There’s a rabbit in front, Maguna! You like rabbits! See! It looks just like Mr. Bun-Bun!"). He finally resorts to just bribing her with juice pops. Bruce almost moves to shake Pepper’s hand before he remembers he’s holding Christie’s head.

“So…” Bruce casts around wildly for something to say. “Your husband built a skyscraper and then plastered your name on it, huh?” Immediately, his brain catches up to his mouth and he cringes.

To his relief, Mrs. Stark just laughs instead of getting angry. “He put my name on the lease, too,” she confides. “You should ask him about the Christmas he got me a giant custom stuffed bunny.”

“Pepper!” Tony cries, affronted. He’s carrying Morgan, who’s _very_ grudgingly wearing the rabbit dress, but not looking very cheerful about it. “Stop telling people about the giant rabbit incident! It was once! And it was years ago!”

“Tony, it was so big it couldn’t fit through the front door!”

“Bruce is going to think I’m a weirdo!”

“You _are_ a weirdo!”

They bicker as they walk into the living room. Morgan insists on walking by herself because she’s a big girl ("I’m three! Not a baby, Daddy!"), and Tony keeps a firm hold of her hand to stop her running off again. Bruce trails after them, feeling uncomfortably like an interloper.

The walls of the penthouse living room are polished stone, hung with modern art pieces. Behind the sofa is Pepper and Tony’s wedding photo, framed with real gold. Next to that is the photo of Morgan’s birth – Tony, Colonel Rhodes, and a stocky man crowded around Pepper, who’s lying in a hospital bed with a wrinkled baby Morgan in her arms – in a frame studded with rubies. There’s an electric fireplace with fake logs and holographic flames. The floor is shag-carpeted, white with black lines in a diamond pattern. The chandelier looks like abstract art, long fluorescent lights and sleek lines in an impressionistic design.

It’s all very predictably lavish and sumptuous and profusive, exactly what Bruce would expect of a quintessential rich guy’s house, in a way that makes him scared to touch anything. But on the coffee table, two Barbie dolls (one with red hair, the other with brown) and one Ken doll (this one wearing a pair of mechanic’s overalls) are having a tea party, using a stack of _Fortune_ magazines as a table. Next to this is a kitschy collecting tin, painted with a row of smiling yellow bees holding hands, with words written with black marker in blocky handwriting: _SWEAR JAR_ , and it’s full of fifty-dollar notes. The room smells like flowers, and Bruce spies several thriving leafy plant pots with lovely yellow blossoms sitting in patches of warm sunlight. A grey stuffed bunny larger than Morgan sits on the sofa (Mr. Bun-Bun, Bruce presumes), which has garish cushions in Iron Man red-and-gold. A child-sized coat – canary-yellow with black furry ears on the hood – is spread on the floor. It seems like a messy, cheery, loving kind of home. Not a bad place to live and raise a child.

Regrettably, it’s also smack dab in the middle of a city about to be invaded by an alien armada.

There’s already a copter waiting on the helipad. Bruce waits inside, watching through the floor-to-ceiling windows as Stark loads up his family and SI’s Head of Security – the same stocky guy in the photo with newborn Morgan – onto the chopper. To say Morgan is unhappy at leaving her father behind is an understatement – she’s downright inconsolable. She screams, she cries until her whole face turns scarlet, she kicks, she throws a temper tantrum, but in the end, she doesn’t get her own way. Stark kisses his wife and his sniffling daughter, hugs Mr. Hogan, then stands on the launch pad watching the helicopter fly farther and farther away, a despondent and morose look on his face.

Bruce is debating with himself whether or not he should go out to get the other man when Stark seems to shake himself out of it, pulls out his phone, and starts a call. Five minutes later, he finally comes inside, still on the phone. “-have to leave the city by tonight, Ben. Don’t go to work. Don’t send Peter to school, just take May and Peter and get into your car and drive away from New York.” Stark’s voice is ragged. “We’re evacuating the city… I can’t say… it’s dangerous, yes… don’t come back until I call you to give you the all-clear… I’ll try… see you on the other side, Ben… yeah, you too.”

He ends the call, then looks up at Bruce. “Do you have a place for me to work?” Bruce asks quickly, not wanting Stark to think he’s been intentionally eavesdropping.

For a microsecond, Stark looks like he wants to say something, but then he visibly bites it back and simply nods, gesturing Bruce back to the elevator.

…

As sunrise turns the sky purple, they get a call from Director Fury.

“Nick,” Tony says cordially as Fury’s glowering visage appears on one of the holographic screens, his fingers flying over the holographic keyboards. Tony Stark does science the way some people play chess, like he’s putting all the moves together and you can’t tell the pattern until he puts the final pieces into place with a complimentary quippy one-liner. “Hold onto your eyepatch. We’re gonna get your cube back. No muss, no fuss.”

“The model’s locked and we’re sweeping for the signature now.” Bruce takes off his glasses and wipes the lenses. “When we get a hit, we’ll have a location within half a mile.”

“Then you need to step it up,” Fury growls. “The clock is ticking.”

“Not even a good job?” Tony says glibly. “What’s got your goat, Nick?”

“Loki’s escaped.”

The only reaction Tony shows is an ambivalent tilt of the head. “Unfortunate… but not surprising. Nick, we planned for this.”

“And Ivan Vanko has been broken out of prison.”

 _This_ makes Tony go stiff, his jaw slackening. “What?”

“Yeah,” Fury says, acrimonious. “Like you said. God of tricks. That slimy bastard flipped the goddamned board.”

“I don’t mean to butt in,” Bruce speaks up timidly. “But who’s Ivan Vanko?”

“Stark?”

Tony has his eyes shut, rubbing his temples as if to stave off a headache. “Keep things handled on your end, Nick. I’ll fill him in.”

“Keep me posted, Tony.”

Tony sinks onto a bench, face in his hands. He seems to be breathing quite heavily.

“So,” Bruce dithers. “Ivan Vanko… I’m guessing by your reaction that it’s bad?”

Stark doesn’t seem to hear him, then, still not looking at him, he says, “Ivan Vanko is the son of Anton Vanko, a physicist who worked with my father on the arc reactor. Dad had him deported for espionage, and when the Russians found out Anton Vanko couldn’t deliver, they shipped his ass off to Siberia and he spent the next twenty years in a… how did Nick put it?... a Vodka-fueled rage… Not quite the environment you want to raise a son in… who I was unfortunate to run into a few years ago.”

“So this Ivan Vanko has a grudge against you?” Bruce surmises.

“No, it’s worse than that.” Tony leaps to his feet, starts pacing frantically along the length of the lab. “Much, much worse. Because our plan to stop Loki’s invasion hedges on the premise that I’m the only person who knows how to create an arc reactor…”

“And you’re not?”

“Not now that Vanko has been broken out of SHIELD custody, I’m not.” Tony gives a bitter laugh, his hands forming fists at his sides. “I forgot Vanko,” he mutters in an undertone, almost to himself. “He was such a pain in my ass. He almost killed Pepper. How could I have just _forgotten_ him?”

Outside, the first red streaks of sunrise lightens the sky.

“Because I know for a _fact_ he can build an arc reactor,” Stark rants. “He’s built one before and it was pretty decent tech,” he admits reluctantly. “I mean, cycles per second were a little low-”

Looking out the windows, Bruce can see the whole of Midtown Manhattan sprawling over the landscape, like a miniature toy city, streets snaking between blocky apartments and other high-rises. He can see the Empire State Building, even taller than Potts Tower, the very top of it almost appearing to touch the clouds. “Tony,” Bruce says.

“-he could have doubled up his rotations. He focused the repulsor energy through ionized plasma channels-”

Clouds start to swirl around the top of the Empire State Building, like the skyscraper is drawing them in. “Tony,” Bruce says again.

“-it’s effective. Not very efficient. But it’s a passable knock-off. Generates enough energy to power the cube too-”

Just white wisps at first, then the clouds become denser and denser, starting to grey, spinning around like a top – inky soup coming to a boil. “Tony,” Bruce says.

“But that means they could be anywhere!” Tony runs his hands manically through his hair. His eyes are like a cornered rat’s, wild and desperate. “He could be on the other side of the planet, in the Arctic, in the deserts, hiding in the Amazon Forest – how the hell are we supposed to find him in time?”

“ _Tony,_ ” Bruce says, and something in his voice makes the other man stop and listen. “Do you remember what you said about Loki and a monument plastered to the sky?”

He feels Tony move to stand beside him, both of them now staring out the windows, seeing exactly the same thing. “Yeah?”

“Well,” Bruce says mildly. “It’s not Potts Tower, but it’s a close second, don’t you think?”

Tony pulls out his phone, scrolls through his list of contacts, makes a call. “Hey, Nick?” he says. “You want the good news or the bad news? Good news – we found Vanko and the Tesseract. Bad news-”

Tony’s lab takes up an entire floor. The walls are one-way glass, giving them a panoramic view of the blue beam of energy that shoots up into the sky, of the clouds rolling back like a curtain, of the pale blue sky peeling back to show the starry inky emptiness of distant space, and of the alien army right on their doorstep.

…

_“Just like Budapest all over again!”_

_“Loki might think the cube is impenetrable, but I’ve heard differently. If you can use the scepter against it… the Tesseract can’t fight against itself.”_

_“Dr. Banner, now might be a really good time for you to get angry.”_

**_“PUNY GOD!”_ **

_“PEPPER, you ever hear the tale of Jonah?”_

_“What? You getting sleepy?”_

_“The Chitauri operate on a hive mind. Take out the mothership, we kill them all stone dead.”_

_“I can shut the portal down!”_

_“I should have called myself Icarus instead of Iron Man.”_

_“You **do** know the point of that story is that he flew too close to the sun, right?”_

_“Do you know who thinks that way, T’Challa? People who have never flown.”_

…

“You think I’m going behind Fury’s back?” Tony asks, drolly amused.

They’re standing in the lobby of Potts Tower, which has been hastily transformed into a makeshift first-aid and emergency center. The windows have been thoroughly wrecked during the invasion, and all the shards of broken glass had to be swept away. The polished and waxed marble floor is littered with detritus, badly cracked in some places and covered in dust and grime and smeared with blood everywhere else. The anteroom is packed full of the survivors of the invasion, all in some varying states of injury.

A man in a formal blue button-up clutches his heavily bandaged left arm to his chest, and he sits squeezed into a corner. A teenager braces himself against the closed elevator doors, face screwed up in pain, while a paramedic sets his broken leg. A dark-skinned man in jogging clothes lies with his eyes closed on a gurney, with an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. A little boy curls up on the floor, clutching his sprained ankle and crying while his mother tries to shush him. A dazed-looking man sits on one of the couches, holding an ice pack to his head wound. The door to the stairwell opens and Stark Industries’ employees file into the already overcrowded lobby, carrying stacks of blankets, boxes of food, bottles of water, and start to hand them out.

The room smells of blood and sweat and dust. Every few seconds, an Iron Man suit swoops down from the sky and lands right outside, carrying the wounded in their arms, on their backs, in the suit itself – deposits the injured into the care of the paramedics, then shoots back up into the sky, joining twenty of its fellows as they comb the city for survivors, with help from War Machine and Captain America. Sam Wilson has relinquished his Falcon wings in favor of a first-aid kit and has went to help the other first responders. Bruce detachedly recalls Wilson used to be a pararescue.

Bruce wonders if _he_ is expected to help out that way as well, given his past experience as a doctor and his rudimentary background in medicine and anatomy. But he just can’t bring himself to move. Giving into his anger – simmering under his skin, as if letting The Other Guy out has brought it closer to the surface – has knocked him off-kilter. His skin feels tight, itchy, uncomfortable. He catches himself scratching at it. Checks his reflection constantly in the few unbroken windows. Keeps expecting to see something else staring back.

Tony shifts almost imperceptibly, blatantly telegraphing his intentions so as not to startle him, pressing his elbow against Bruce’s arm. The touch is grounding. Bruce doesn’t remember the last time someone tried to calm him down when he got agitated, instead of just backing away immediately and resorting to guns. It’s refreshing and mildly alarming. Bruce can’t decide if Tony’s the most compassionate man he’s ever met, the most blasé, or the most reckless.

Then again, Bruce has read the gossip columns. He knows Tony Stark has a lust for life that, when viewed from a distance, is almost indistinguishable from a death wish.

“I have a hard time believing that Director Fury would agree to just _hand over_ an unlimited source of power,” Romanoff says austerely.

“Widow, _look around_.” Tony sweeps his arms over the lobby. “This is what your unlimited source of power brought you – an alien invasion at our doorstep and probably more to come, people dead and dying on the streets. Even if Nick disagrees with me – which he doesn’t – how can you possibly say we have the right to keep the Tesseract after what happened today?”

“It’s SHIELD property,” Romanoff insists. Her forehead and lip are badly cut.

“ _Stark_ property,” Tony corrects. “Howard Stark fished it out of the bottom of the ocean and turned it over to SHIELD. I let SHIELD keep it because I thought they could harness it to do some good – and obviously, we were all wrong. _I_ was wrong.” Tony pauses. “And you guys better remember that, because I’m never saying that last part again.”

“Stark speaks true,” Thor agrees in his booming voice. The God of Thunder is in better condition than all of them except Bruce. What injuries he suffered during the battle have already healed and he merely looks as if he’s been rolling about in a vat of dirt. “SHIELD’s work with the Tesseract is what drew Loki to it, and his allies. It is a signal to all the realms that the Earth is ready for a higher form of war.”

“A higher form?” Bruce parrots.

“A nuclear deterrent never calms anything down.” Tony groans, slapping himself a couple of times on the forehead. Bruce catches the other man’s wrist, stopping him. “I never learn.”

“Nat,” Barton interjects. His arms have been badly scraped. He looks as if he took a nosedive into a sheet of glass. They exchange a look and Romanoff subsides.

A generic Iron Man suit – Bruce wonders how many suits Tony has – steps forward, offering the scepter and the suitcase containing the Tesseract. “The sooner this is off our planet, the better,” Tony says.

They don’t see it coming.

One of the survivors walk past them, clutching a black stole to her face. She stumbles and Tony reaches out to steady her. One side of her face is scarred. Her red hair is short and choppy, and her grin is sharp and foxlike.

She throws Tony aside and lunges at the suitcase and the scepter. Bruce stumbles back, forcefully willing himself to remain calm. He can’t even imagine the devastation if the Hulk gets loose right here, in a building with more than a hundred already injured civilians.

Thor gets in her way, but the woman turns orange, and Bruce means _literally_ orange. She glows from inside as if her flesh is made of lava, and she thrusts her palm at Thor’s face, who cries out and stumbles back. Bruce feels the heat she emanates, hotter than a furnace, hears something sizzling, smells flesh burning, sees the skin of Thor’s cheek blistering and peeling off in the shape of a handprint.

Tony starts forward, but Bruce throws an arm to hold him back. “Get Iron Man!” Bruce says. There’s a hint of a growl in his voice. He’s losing control of the Other Guy. The skin of his arm is tinting green.

Tony looks like he wants to argue, but when the flaming woman plants an elbow in Natasha’s face, cracks Clint’s head against the wall, and burns a hole into T’Challa’s Black Panther suit, Stark obviously thinks better of it. Swallowing, he leaves the room, hopefully to call Iron Man and then stay out of the line of fire. Bruce takes deep breathes, stays at the sidelines, concentrates on keeping it together.

Screams echo around the lobby as half a dozen men, glowing with heat like the woman, rise to their feet. They engage the Avengers with nothing but their bare hands. They’re super-strong too, strong enough that three of them can go toe-to-toe with Thor while the other three deal with Romanoff, Barton, and T’Challa. The woman picks up the scepter and is reaching for the Tesseract’s case when the familiar sound of repulsors reach Bruce’s ears and he nearly sags with relief.

Iron Man, or at least, one of the drones, soars into the lobby through one of the broken windows. He grabs the woman by the throat. They grabble in mid-air, and Bruce is just thinking that Iron Man is winning, when he sees the woman get a handhold around the suit’s arm, heating the metal until it glows red and parts of it start to drip as it melts. Iron Man is forced to released her. Switching tactics, he fires his repulsors at her, but the glowing men have an ace up their sleeves too.

“Holy sh-” Baton says, just before he throws himself out of the way as the glowing men breathe fire. Bruce nearly loses control of himself. He hears the seam of his borrowed shirt rip.

“Iron Man!” Black Panther rakes his vibranium claws across his opponent’s face. The wounds glow with fire as they knit themselves back together. “The scepter!”

The woman has just left the lobby at a run, scepter in hand. Iron Man turns to her, but before he can give chase, one of the glowing men laughs, “Oh, no you don’t!”

Natasha seems to recognize him. “Rumlow!”

“Hydra!” Iron Man says.

The heat emanating from the man – Rumlow – intensifies. His teeth are like molten gold ingots. He looks like he’s _made_ of fire, flames rolling beneath his skin, lighting up his skull eerily. The air around him is steaming.

“When you gotta go, you gotta go!” Rumlow cackles. “And you’re all coming with me!”

“He’s going to blow!” Iron Man warns.

Bruce’s vision washes over in green.

…

The ensuing debriefing is very much not enjoyable.

“HOW THE HELL DID YOU ALL LET THIS HAPPEN?”

They’re back on the Helicarrier flight deck. Tony, Bruce, Rhodey, and T’Challa sit on one side of the triangular table; Rogers (Tony hasn’t brutally murdered him yet, but give him time), Romanoff, Wilson, Barton, and Thor sit on the second; while Fury stands menacingly at the third, glowering them all into submission, flanked by Maria Hill and Phil Coulson. Even Coulson’s usually unflappable demeanor has started to fray. The SHIELD agents manning their stations are smirking at them.

“Well, it’s not like we just handed the scepter to them.” Barton’s shoulders rise defensively to his ears. “They took it from us!”

“They took it!” Fury gives Barton the gimlet eye, and the archers quails. “It was a fight against Hawkeye, Black Widow, Thor, Iron Man, and the _Hulk…_ and they just _took_ it!”

“They were breathing _fire,_ ” Barton says, discombobulated. “Or was I the only one who caught that? Glowing, fire-breathing, exploding-” He makes a _whoosh_ noise and mimes an explosion with his hands.

Fury’s chest swells like a balloon, building up steam for another tirade.

“I think Bruce was brilliant,” Tony says, loud and biting, cutting him off. He looks at his Science Bro, who looks like he wants to sink right through the ground as all attention turns to him. “He saved what… an entire building full of people?”

“Tony.” Bruce ducks his head down, self-effacingly.

“Learn to take a compliment, Brucie-Bear.”

“Stark’s right,” Romanoff says, giving Bruce one of her rare unadulterated smiles – the kind Tony remembers only Bruce and Clint could pull from her. “You were a hero yesterday, Dr. Banner.”

Bruce blushes crimson.

“Now we’ve got that over with,” Fury barks curtly. “Can we get back to the matter at hand?”

“What were those things anyway?” Wilson asks. He has a butterfly bandage over a cut on his cheek. “Who were those people?” He looks at Natasha. “That man who exploded – you called him Rumlow?”

“They’re Hydra,” Maria Hill replies. “Previously SHIELD’s STRIKE team, and Rumlow was their field commander, before Director Fury cleaned house and flushed them all out of hiding.”

“I thought you said HYDRA had been eradicated.” Rogers gives Fury a look that’s almost accusing.

“No, I said HYDRA had been _mostly_ eradicated,” Fury says, calm but firm.

“Well, _mostly_ eradicated obviously wasn’t enough,” Rogers retorts.

Apropos of nothing, Thor chuckles. “You people are so petty,” he says, condescendingly amused. “And tiny.”

“Okay, everyone, let’s all chill down for a second,” Wilson says, attempting to mediate before the fraught situation can degenerate further. “Tempers are running high… so were Rumlow and his buddies always…” He trails off, making an oblique gesture towards his face.

“No, that was new,” Coulson says blandly.

“How did Loki change them?” T’Challa asks darkly. “Can the scepter do that to a person? Can the Tesseract?”

“My brother denies any playing any part in the theft of the cube,” Thor thunders.

“Your brother,” Wilson says ironically. “The bastion of truth.”

“My brother claims innocence,” Thor booms. “I believe him.”

“Then you’re an idiot,” Barton sneers.

Thor starts to rise to his feet, bumping his knees against the table.

“Thor, sit down,” Fury orders.

“Oh, yeah, this is a team,” Rhodey says sardonically. He eyes Rogers in particular with barely concealed hostility. Tony nudges his best friend in his ribs. _Stop that_ , he tries to tell Rhodey with his eyes.

“That wasn’t Loki,” Tony says bitterly. Everyone looks at him. “That was Extremis.” Talk about the past coming to bite – first Ivan Vanko, now Extremis. “Do you know what the worst thing that could happen to me is?” he asks no one in particular, tone almost fanciful. He continues before anyone can answer. He ignores Rogers’ eyeroll, but Rhodey doesn’t. _If looks can kill…_ “To be kidnapped and forced to make weapons for indiscriminate killers. For my talent to be perverted.”

Bruce nods, though he looks bewildered by the sudden turn of the conversation. “That’s how you made Iron Man.”

“I was _lucky,_ ” Tony says acrimoniously. “With the help of Ho Yinsen, I made a weapon that helped me escape. I’ve spent the past four years keeping that weapon away from people. But anytime I talk to anyone _like_ me, it’s what we chew over. What we’d do if it happened. What safeguards we’d put in place…” Tony slides his Stark-phone across the table. It projects a holographic screen, and front and center is a photo of Maya, brown hair trimmed short, with a confident alluring smile. Her eyes are distracted, like she’s calculating a million equations at once. “A few days before Loki stole the Tesseract, I received a message from one of those safeguards. Maya Hansen’s. She’d set up a system so that if she ever texted a certain number, it’d deliver a specific warning to her friends. It says her nightmare – _all_ our nightmares – happened. She was kidnapped and forced to return to her own Frankenstein’s monster…”

“Maya Hansen?” Phil Coulson says. “The genetic programmer?”

“I thought Hansen was Head of the Maria Stark’s Foundation’s R&D division?” Bruce recalls. “She was all over the news and everything. She came up with GOWF.”

“GOWF?” Thor rumbles. “Is that some sort of beast?”

“I thought it was a sport,” Rogers says, perplexed.

“It’s not some sort of beast. It’s a plant. Stands for the Grow Any Where Food.” Tony brings up a picture of the blue egg-shaped fruit. “Maya’s brainchild. The Foundation just started overseeing the first seedings in Sub-Saharan Africa.”

“What does a woman trying to solve world hunger have to do with fire-breathing mutants?” Wilson asks, nonplussed.

“I was getting to that,” Tony says. “Before Maya worked for me, she was part of a privately-funded think tank called Advanced Idea Mechanics. Or AIM for short. It was founded by this guy.” He shows them Aldrich Killian, dressed in a snappy suit, like a supermodel for the average businessman dabbling in villainy on the side. “Aldrich Killian. Who’s in prison.”

“On what charges?” Rogers asks.

“Among others.” Fury’s single eye is bulging and bloodshot. “Illegal human experimentation. Manslaughter. Catastrophic negligence.”

Tony shows them a series of video clips, with Killian’s voice narrating in the background. “ _Injections are administered periodically. Addiction will not be tolerated. And those who cannot regulate will be cut off from the program… Once misfits, cripples… You are the next iteration of human evolution… Everybody, before we start, I promise you, looking back at your life, there will be nothing as bitter as the memory of that glorious risk you prudently elected to forego. Today is your glory…_ ” The volunteers, stripped down to their undergarments, strapped down and glowing like magma, screaming as their missing limbs regrow. The camera pans to focus on one of the volunteers, his skin cracking like Kintsugi. Killian’s voice grows alarmed. “ _We gotta get out of here! Get her out! Get them out of here!_ ” They take the rest of the volunteers. The camera stays trained on the man left behind as his body rejects Extremis, his entire being turning to flame, just like Rumlow, but his eyes are open – so blinding they look like his sockets are filled with miniature explosions, and Tony can see the terror in them, the incomprehension, the agony, before he blows apart.

Bruce’s complexion is chalky-white. He’s no doubt thinking of his own experiment, the one that turned him into the Hulk. “Maya Hansen did this?” he asks, voice as hoarse as a frog that spent time in a microwave.

Tony gives him a discerning look that’s not without sympathy. He can guess, judging by Bruce’s reaction, how much the other man must admire Maya’s work. “Maya thought the Extremis enhancile – in the right hands – could grant the human body the ability to heal and regenerate from physical damages, deformities… even psychological damages.”

“The volunteers.” T’Challa’s voice is shaken. “Where are they now?”

“Going about their lives,” Fury says simply. “Same as they always do. As long as they keep their heads low, keep to the law, SHIELD leaves them be.”

Natasha does a double-take. “Are you telling us there’s a dozen mini-Rogers wandering about in the streets?”

“They’re not as strong as Thor-”

“Not as strong as Thor isn’t saying much,” Barton scoffs. “I fought them – they were strong enough.”

“Not all of them are evil,” Rhodey says, in a voice that makes everyone fall silent and listen. “They’re people who’ve been sick their entire life, searching for a miracle cure. They’re amputees, _cripples_ , vets who’s lost limbs out on the battlefield.” Rhodey meets Sam Wilson’s eyes, and some silent understanding seems to pass between them. “They’re not bad people, just…”

“Desperate,” Wilson says.

“Extremis was meant to be a cure-all,” Tony says, low and grave. “Maya was a genius. Her work was revolutionary, but it was too easily corrupted, too easy to abuse. People took one look at it and thought, _I can make this a weapon._ It was what Aldrich Killian thought.” Tony shakes his head, repulsed. “And that was something Maya never wanted. She reached out to me. I got her out of the bad situation. SHIELD arrested Killian. I put Maya in charge of the Maria Stark Foundation’s R&D division, where she could spend her days doing what she loved, where she could use her creations to help people. Extremis was tabled permanently.”

“And then she was kidnapped,” Maria Hill says.

“We let our guard down,” Tony says. He’s angry, mostly at himself. “Maya took a month-long sabbatical. No red flags. I didn’t even know anything was wrong until I got her message… and now Maya’s probably dead.”

“Human bombs.” Rogers’s voice is like flint. “Yeah, I can see why HYDRA would be interested in that.”

“HYDRA – or what’s left of it – has at least half a dozen Extremis soldiers – _that we know of,_ ” Fury snarls. “They may have more, and if that’s not bad enough, they have the scepter.”

There’s a second of silence as everyone digests that, then Barton summarizes the entire situation with two words.

“We’re fucked.”

…

**2013**

Pepper Potts plans a four-year old girl’s birthday party with the same professionalism and meticulousness with which she runs a board of directors meeting.

It’s a bit daunting and very attractive.

“The balloons go here.” Pepper directs her husband to tie the pink strings of the flamboyantly pink balloons onto the legs of the long table. The balloons float, bobbing in the air and swaying slightly in the cooling breeze. The weather couldn’t be better – breezy, not too sunny, and no hint of rain. “Cupcakes go here.” Pepper points to a particular spot on the tablecloth – white, with pink circles, of course. Tony sets down the tray laden down with frosted sugary monstrosities with difficulty. It’s a minor juggling act not to drop anything, which would be bad, because it would ruin Morgan’s birthday party and make her cry, which would in turn bring down the Wrath of Pepper. “Cake-pops, here. Then the party hats and the party favors.” Tony sets down the pink-on-white polka-dotted cardboard cones with those puffy pink fluffs on top, right next to the Angry Birds and Bad Piggies cake-pop holders. Each party hat has a big ‘4’ done in silver glitter. Pepper checks off the list of items on her clipboard, then glances at her watch. “Almost nine. And we still haven’t set up the floaties for the swimming pool.”

“Twenty minutes,” Tony counters, finally setting down the armful of glittery pink bags containing the Strawberry Shortcake themed party favors (you know, the redhaired girl with the strawberry hat, not the dessert) – sunglasses and lunchboxes and nail-polish and the like. The glaring pink color blinds him everywhere he looks – balloons, streamers, frilly tablecloths, chairs, and even the tiles of the swimming pool. An electric barbeque grill has been set up nearby, and even that has been painted bright pink. “Plenty of time, Pep. Relax about it.”

_So. Much. Pink._

The penthouse roof of Potts Tower has been transformed into the place where Barbie dolls go to die. It’s a little like what Tony thinks hell must look like, but for Morgan, he can put up with anything.

“I can’t relax!” Pepper’s voice is shrill. Tony has seen her act calmer when she first found him in a bullet-ridden Iron Man armor. “How can I relax? This is Morgan’s first birthday party. She has such high hopes-”

“You’re doing great, honey-”

“-don’t want to scar her for life, Tony-”

“-going to love it, even if you completely ruin this, which you won’t, just because you put so much effort into it-”

“-hate birthday parties because almost no one showed up to my twelfth birthday party and the bakery got the cake order wrong-”

“-Morgan’s got lots of friends. And Peter! Peter’s coming! She loves Peter-”

“-never looked at birthday parties the same again-”

“Pep.” Tony holds his wife’s shoulders. “Pepper. Breathe.”

Pepper breathes, an attractive flush high in her cheeks. Tony’s brain starts randomly seizing on minute details about her, like the fact that her skin is very freckly; and that the sunlight makes her hair look like fire. Her calves are bare and very pale. She’s wearing a lacy dress, black on black, like animal shadows, deer running through a forest. The only jewelry she wears is a row of gold bangles on her left wrist, which rattles elegantly down her arm when she raises a hand to push some loose strands of hair behind her ear. Just looking at her makes Tony’s head feel fuzzy.

“I just want this to be perfect for her,” Pepper says, more sangfroid now, but still a bit flustered. “And the entire week before I was worried we’d have to cancel because Morgan got the terrible flu-”

“It will be perfect,” Tony assures his wife, running his hands down her arms and taking her hands, linking their fingers together. Pepper’s fingers are small and dainty and elegant, deceptively fragile – the hands of someone who spends their days at a desk. His own are rough and calloused, with a shiny burn mark on the fleshy skin of his left palm, from the last time he forgot that soldering irons are hot. Their fingers slot together perfectly. “You know what, I think you should take a break.”

“No, I cannot take a break,” Pepper protests. “The first guests will be arriving any minute-”

“Hey, Pep.” Tony squeezes his wife’s hand. “This isn’t a charity function, okay? This is Morgan’s birthday party – we’ll be among friends. The point of all this is to have fun.”

“I can have fun later-”

“Nope,” Tony says blithely. He sneakily takes the clipboard away from her, wedging it in his armpit. “A break. Now.”

“Tony-”

“Five minutes,” Tony cajoles. “Five minutes, and after that, you can go back to worrying about pool floaties and party favors and that weird yogurt Egyptian drink Morgan likes so much.”

“Rainbow yogurt mango strawberry vanilla. She wants juice-pops in the same flavor-”

“Five minutes,” Tony says again. He changes the topic into something that’s guaranteed to pull Pepper’s attention away from Egyptian yogurt drinks. “Can we sneak a cake pop before the party?”

It works. Pepper gives her husband a look of complete seriousness and says, “If you do that, I will fry you in the sun.”

“It’s worth the risk.” Tony nibbles a cake-pop, moaning in ecstasy when the chocolatey goodness hits his tongue. Pepper’s mouth falls open in outrage, and he seizes the opportunity, shoving the rest of the cake-pop into her mouth, muffling whatever it is she wants to say. She glares at him as she chews. “You have chocolate… right here…” Tony thumbs swipes across the corner of Pepper’s mouth. Their eyes meet as he leans in to kiss her. Pepper’s lips taste sweet, like cake and chocolate frosting. When they pull apart, Pepper is looking at him in that hazy and soft way he’s intimately familiar with.

A small waist-high voice says, “Gross!”

Tony and Pepper look down.

It’s Morgan. She’s all made up for her party, in a white blouse which says _Four and Feisty_ in pretty cursive, and a fluffy pink tulle skirt. There are white and pink cloth flowers in her braided hair. She looks like the most adorable thing in the world. She holds up her arms in a silent demand for _up_.

“Why are you always getting into places you’re not supposed to be, little miss?” Tony asks, acquiescing to his daughter’s demand and hoisting her up into his arms, even as his creaky old joints complain about it.

Pepper directs her eyes skyward. “She’s _your_ daughter.”

“Excuse me, Ms. Potts,” Tony says huffily. “Are you implying that I frequently get into places I’m not supposed to be?”

“Yes,” Pepper says.

“Just checking,” Tony says. In his arms, Morgan giggles.

“Cake-pops!” Morgan squeals. “Yum!” She makes grabby hands.

“Not yet, little miss.” Tony gives her an Eskimo kiss. She giggles again. Morgan’s always been a cheerful, giggly child. “You wouldn’t want your friends to feel left out, would you?”

Morgan think about that for a second, then shakes her head. “No!”

“Why don’t you go and help Mommy with the floaties?” Tony suggests, handing Morgan off to Pepper. “Because if I’m not mistaken, the first guest is arriving now.”

He points to the sky. Pepper and Morgan’s eyes follow his finger. The wind has picked up, blowing the girls’ dresses against their legs. A glint above their heads, like sunrays reflecting off polished metal – it’s armor. Like a Norse armored hippie-looking Superman, Thor makes a perfect landing onto the roof, decked out in full God of Thunder Regalia. Morgan claps and cheers enthusiastically at the entrance.

“Lord Stark!” Thor booms, jolly. “Lady Stark! I have come to partake in the celebration of your daughter’s fourth name-day! We shall feast!”

“Thanks, Thor.” Tony claps the God of Thunder companionably on the shoulder. Thor’s skin is like steel. Tony raps his knuckles against Thor’s bicep, then shakes out his fingers, which are stinging. Thor regards his antics with indulgent bemusement. “Would you like a party favor?” Thor accepts the bag, reaches in and fishes out a Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox. “That’s a limited-edition collectible,” Tony informs him.

“Quality workmanship,” Thor observes. “My many thanks, Stark!” He looks around. “Will the Man of Iron not be joining us for the revels?”

“Oh, no. Iron Man’s busy,” Tony says jauntily. “Busy, busy man, he is. He has a life outside of being Iron Man, you know, Thor. And anyways, you’re early. The party hasn’t started yet, but don’t worry, that just means you can help me out with the barbeque.”

Tony tosses Thor an apron – black, with white lettering on it:

_This Is A Manly Apron,_

_For A Manly Man,_

_Doing Manly Things,_

_With Manly Food._

And beneath that is a white outline of Tony’s Van Dyke.

Thor obediently sheds his armor in favor of the apron. Tony sneaks a picture, then zooms in onto the blond man’s bare muscly arms, showing it to Pepper and wiggling his eyebrows. Pepper looks exasperated. Or maybe she looks loving. Pepper’s looks of exasperation and her looks of love are remarkably similar, and Tony still has trouble telling them apart even after all these years.

“What?” Tony says. “You’re the main dish, Pep, but I can still look at the menu.”

At nine o’clock, Tony lets Thor take over the grill (The God of Thunder seems to have things well in hand, mostly, and seems to be having fun), and goes to greet the guests. It’s a small guestlist, including Morgan’s four best friends from preschool: Riri, a precocious girl with black dreadlocks; Miles, who reminds Tony of a younger dark-skinned Peter; Kamala, a plucky Muslim girl; Sam, shy and awestruck; and all of the kids’ assorted parents. Then there’s Happy and Rhodey, of course. Plus Thor, Bruce, and Natasha (neither Tony nor Pepper are really happy about that last one, but she’s coming as Bruce’s plus-one, so they let it slide). Nick is a no-show, but a SHIELD grunt shows up on their doorstep with a junior microscope for Morgan.

The Parkers are the last to arrive.

“Sorry, we’re late!” May hands over the present for Morgan. The wrapping paper is white birds against a red background. “Got stuck in traffic. The congestion is hell.”

“No problem, May.” Tony grins. “Ben. Kid.”

“Mr. Tony!” Peter beams up at him. He’s wearing a neatly pressed collared shirt and jeans, and flanked by a much younger Ned Leeds and Michelle Jones. Ned is gawking at everything, head swiveling vigorously, almost as if he’s trying to unscrew his head from his neck. Michelle is unnervingly unreadable, even in miniature.

“Kid!” Tony ruffles Peter’s hair. “You going to introduce me to your friends?”

“Oh. Oh, right.” Peter blushes. “Mr. Tony, this is my best friends, Ned and MJ.”

“M-Mr. St-Stark! Sir!” Ned squeaks. He turns the color of a beetroot. “Hi! I-It’s an honor t-to m-meet you! Sir! Your Grace!”

MJ stomps on Ned’s foot. “Shut up, loser.” MJ looks up at Tony and says, very politely, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Stark.”

Jeez. Peter’s friends are so…

“Peter!” Morgan practically screams in delight. She comes sprinting towards them. She’s already changed into her pink-and-yellow swimsuit. “Peter! Peter! Peter! Peter!”

“Morgan! Morgan! Morgan! Morgan! Morgan!” Peter says playfully, scooping her up by the armpits and spinning her around. Morgan shrieks with glee. “Happy Birthday!”

“You’re late!” Morgan pouts. “I thought you weren’t coming!”

“Never, Morgie.” Peter musses up her hair. “I’d never miss my little sister’s birthday!”

“Go change!” Morgan demands. She’s still small and cute enough that her bossiness comes off as adorably precocious rather than spoilt. “I want to play in the pool!”

The kids go nuts over the pizza floaties. Each floatie is an inflatable pizza slice large enough for a kid to sprawl on, with Velcro running down the sides, and when they push the pizza slices together, the floaties stick and make a complete pizza.

“Anyone hungry?” Tony asks the adults, over the sound of water splashing and the kids’ shrieks of laughter.

“Starving,” Happy says, as Tony leads them to the grill station. The smell of cooking meat is intoxicating.

“What do you got for us, Thor?” Rhodey asks, as he hands out Strawberry Shortcake plastic plates. Happy passes out the teeny pink plastic utensils.

Thor’s long blond hair has been tied back in a ponytail. He looks more like a muscular hippie than ever. Sweat glistens over his muscles, like his biceps have been oiled. Pepper catches Tony’s eye, looks pointedly at Thor’s glistening arms, then feigns an overdramatic swoon. Tony bites the inside of his cheek, chokes down laughter.

“I have prepared steaks, hamburgers, and veggie burgers. Furthermore, I have grilled the hot dog, though the quality of this meat seems… questionable.” Thor pokes the hot dogs with his grill tongs, expression dubious. “ _This_ I cannot recommend.” He adds, in a lower tone, “I also attempted a lobster, but the beast defeated me.”

“I’ll have a hot dog.” Ben holds out his plate.

“Me too,” May says.

“Such bravery.” Thor makes a face, one eye squishing shut. “Two dogs _each_.”

…

**2014**

“But this is a breakfast food!” Morgan whines, as Tony sets a plate of hash in front of her. “It’s dinnertime!”

“It’s always breakfast time somewhere,” Tony counters.

Morgan scowls and scratches the top of the dining table with the prongs of her fork.

“Don’t do that, Maguna,” Tony scolds. “That’s dirty. You’re going to put all sorts of germs and bacteria in your mouth.” He nudges the plate of hash closer to her. “Now eat up.”

Petulantly, Morgan chews on a spoonful of meat and potatoes, cheeks full like a hamster. At least she swallows before once again giving her unsolicited opinion. “There’s no egg.”

Tony sighs. A bit of onion dangles from his fork. “I didn’t put any egg.”

“Mummy always puts egg in my hash,” Morgan complains. She’s squeezed so much ketchup onto her plate the bits of meat and potatoes are swimming in red gunk.

“Well, I’m not Mummy,” Tony snaps.

“I like her hash better,” Morgan sulks.

“So do I,” Tony admits. “But Mom is in London being the Big Boss. She can make you hash when she gets back.”

“But I want her back _now_!” Morgan wails.

“Morgan.” Tony sighs, sets down his utensils. “I’m sorry Mom can’t make it to your piano recital, but throwing a tantrum about it isn’t going to make her come back. And besides, Daddy is going to be there-”

“But I want Mummy!” Morgan slams her hands against the table.

“Morgan!” Tony scolds harshly. Morgan falls silent. “We do not hit the table!” Morgan’s big brown eyes well up in tears, and Tony softens. “Mom would be there if she could, Maguna, but being the Big Boss sometimes means she’s going to miss some of your recitals.”

“Why does Mummy have to be the Big Boss?” Morgan asks, lower lip wobbling.

“Because she’s the best at being the Big Boss.”

“But why?”

“Because she just is. She has to be the best at being the Big Boss so she can bring home the Big Bucks.”

“But why?”

“Well, we use the Big Bucks for many things, Maguna, like your piano lessons and your clothes and your toys.”

“But why?”

“I love you, Maguna.” Tony takes a couple of tissues, wipes the red smudge of ketchup from Morgan’s chin. “But if you ask me ‘why’ one more time, I’m going to lose it.” Morgan looks up at him impishly. “And you were doing that om purpose, weren’t you?”

“No!” Morgan says, blinking up at him innocently.

“God, you’re just like me. Pepper was right,” Tony mutters. Morgan looks at him, open-mouthed, half-chewed potato inside. “Close your mouth, little miss. Did your mother and I raise you in a barn?” he says, then adds in an undertone, “God, this must be karma. Now I know how Howard felt.”

For someone who complained about his cooking not ten minutes ago, Morgan sure shovels down her meal fast, slurping her pineapple juice. Morgan drinks juice like a weirdo. She doesn’t like to stir the drink, so the ice always melts into a layer of cold water on top of the juice, and there’s always melted ice at the bottom of her glass after she’s done.

Last one at the table has to clean up. House rules. So Tony isn’t surprised when Morgan places her clean plate and utensils into the sink, then immediately scarpers. He’s chasing the last of his potatoes around his plate with a fork when his Stark-phone rings. He answers the call without looking at the screen.

“So, hey,” Tony says, through a mouthful of oily starchy goodness. “Our daughter, by the way, is very displeased with you, and you know how good she is at holding grudges – _no_ idea where she inherited that charming personality trait from, by the way. So you better bring back an awesome souvenir when you get back to make it up to her.”

“Mr. Stark?”

Tony doesn’t do a spit-take, but it’s a close thing.

“ _Rogers_.” The word comes out closer to a snarl. Tony has, as both Tony Stark and Iron Man, managed to completely avoid directly interacting with Captain Sometimes-My-Teammates-Don’t-Tell-Me-Things until now. That banked anger smolders like a sleeping volcano. “What do _you_ want?”

“Mr. Stark,” Rogers says again, tone frigid and unfriendly. Tony has made no effort to mask his abhorrence towards the other man, and likewise Rogers has returned the favor in kind. There’s no pretense at friendship or trust in this life. Honesty, at last. “If I could have a moment of your time?”

“No, you may not,” Tony says pleasantly. “If Fury put you up to this, tell him his job is to save the world from alien invasions, not to particularize my interpersonal issues.”

“Mr. Stark.” Rogers’ voice is drawn and pinched, like he’s barely restraining himself. He acts like Tony hasn’t said anything. “Your father and I were good friends back in the day.”

Oh, this again.

“Oh, you two knew each other,” Tony sneers. “He never mentioned that – maybe only a thousand times. God, I _hated_ you,” he says, with a lot of feeling.

“I don’t mean to make things difficult,” Rogers says, and Tony gets a strong feeling of déjà vu.

“That’s very polite of you, Rogers,” Tony says condescendingly.

“I…” Rogers uncharacteristically falters. Uncertainty is a foreign look on him, at least for Tony, who has only ever seen Rogers in two modes: the supercilious self-righteous asshole mode, and the stubborn self-righteous asshole mode.

Then he says something Tony would never think he’d hear from the other man in a hundred years.

“Mr. Stark, I’m sorry to have to tell you… but I just found out HYDRA had your parents assassinated.”

_What._

Tony is too stunned to be angry.

Rogers ploughs on ahead. “It was a man called the Winter Soldier. He was a prisoner of war fighting for the allies, and HYDRA had him tortured and brainwashed for decades.”

It’s more than Tony’s Rogers ever said to him on the topic, but even so, he still notices that _this_ Rogers still says nothing about the Winter Soldier being Bucky Barnes. Even now, Steve Rogers is _still_ lying to him about Bucky Barnes. His confusion drains away, and his anger makes a valiant attempt at returning, but doesn’t quite succeed, because Tony is too… something.

Without another word, he ends the call. He doesn’t know why Rogers told him that, even if Rogers never mentioned Barnes by name, he must know that SHIELD knows perfectly well who the Winter Soldier once was. It would be all too easy, if Tony really is clueless and wants to find out, to hunt down the Winter Soldier's identity and figure out Bucky Barnes part to play in it.

An unnamed emotion wells up inside Tony’s chest. For the first time, he wishes the Rogers he was once friends with is here, wishes the Rogers in this life remembers. _Why now?_ Tony wishes he could ask him. For the first time, Tony regrets, not necessarily Rogers’ death, but the fact that he never got an explanation before Rogers died.

 _Why tell me now?_ Tony wonders. _When we’re not even friends this go around. Why tell the truth to a stranger and hide it from a man who trusted you with his life on the battleground? Why tell me this now when it’s too late for…_ the precise wording eludes him.

Too late for what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things happening behind the scenes:  
> 1\. No one else has found out Tony is Iron Man.  
> 2\. Bruce saved everyone by throwing himself on top of the exploding Rumlow and absorbing the blast.  
> 3\. The Extremis soldiers have not been sighted since Ellen Brandt made off with the scepter. SHIELD assumes they're still at large. *nudge, nudge, wink, wink*
> 
> Next chapter updating in 2-3 weeks. Plot!


	4. Bruce, Ultron, Wanda, Vision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own anything.
> 
> Some dialogue taken directly from Avengers: Age of Ultron (2015). Inspiration for robot cheerleaders from Avengers comics.

**2015**

Tony resists the urge to scream.

“Why,” Tony says, with a smile that’s closer to baring his teeth, “Did you bring that _here_?”

The crystal cradled at the head of the scepter glows an ethereal blue. The Avengers have brought Loki’s scepter to the Tower, to Tony’s Tower, to Tony’s _home._ To _Morgan’s_ home.

 _Ultron_ , Tony thinks, and then, _JARVIS._

This isn’t supposed to be happening. He was supposed to _change_ this.

“I thought,” Tony says, dangerously slow. His blood is boiling. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this pissed off, or this _afraid_. “Fury told you to make sure Thor took that scepter back to Asgard.”

“Yeah, that’s what we would have done.” Barton shrugs, infuriatingly sanguine in the face of Tony’s rising temper. The archer has a bandage around his arm. “Only he took off.”

“He _took off_?”

“Right after we got the scepter,” Wilson confirms when Tony looks at him. Tony doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone on Team Cap, but Wilson is more tolerable than most, if only because the former pararescue used to be close friends with Rhodey. “We had a run-in with two enhanced.”

“Enhanced?” Tony straightens, alarmed. “More Extremis soldiers?”

“No.” Bruce shakes his head. His expression is a bit careworn, but he doesn’t seem to be unhurt. Since he’s joined the Avengers, his dark hair has greyed noticeably. “These were… something else.”

“They were kids, practically.” Wilson shakes his head fretfully. “Teenagers. One of them had super-speed and silver hair. Thor had an run-in with the other – a girl with mind control powers, I think.”

Tony closes his eyes. The Maximoff twins.

“Anyway, the enhanced got away-” Wilson goes on.

“Did they now?” Tony says dully.

Wilson gives him a queer look. “Thor was okay, but the girl put something in his head that made him really freaked out. He just took off, don’t know why, or for how long. He didn’t mention.”

“T’Challa thinks they might have been experimented on by HYDRA, using the scepter,” Bruce informs him.

“Where is Kitty-Kat, speaking of?” Tony says, in a last-ditch attempt to get the Mind Stone out of his tower. Thank God Morgan and Pepper aren’t home. “Couldn’t he take the scepter? The Mind- the scepter would be safe from HYDRA in Wakanda, wouldn’t it?”

“It would,” Rogers concedes. “Except outsiders aren’t allowed in Wakanda.”

Tony stares at him. “What do you mean, outsiders aren’t allowed in Wakanda? _I’ve_ been to Wakanda. Heck, _Bruce_ has been to Wakanda.” Tony gestures to his fellow scientist, who all of a sudden seems mightily interested in the fraying hem of his super-stretchy purple Hulk shorts. “Can’t you bring the scepter to anyone else?” Tony asks desperately. “SHIELD? CIA? _Anyone_ else?”

“I know this is short notice.” Rogers puffs out his chest. Tony stares at Rogers’ neck so he doesn’t have to look at the other man’s face. “And I know this is an inconvenience, but… if you could just put up with us for a few days, show us a place to store the scepter until Thor comes back – we’ll stay out of your way, you won’t even notice us-”

Tony goes stiff. “You’re all staying then?”

“I understand that you’re uncomfortable with our presence in your home, Mr. Stark.” Rogers begins to preach his sermons. “But-”

“Did I say that?” Tony grins widely, somewhat manically. He must look like truly alarming, because Rogers leans almost imperceptibly away from him. Tony catches his reflection against the glass of the windows – his smile makes his entire face looks stretched, and there’s a high-voltage light in his eyes, like he just stuck his fingers in an electrical socket. “I didn’t say that! The murder twins and HYDRA’s number one enemy – why _would_ I be uncomfortable with your presence in my home? Nope. No reason at all. Plenty of room in _this_ tower! _Mi casa es su casa!_ ”

“Stark-”

“And what a coincidence!” Tony says, looking more deranged than ever. He’s brought out his Stark-phone, fingers flying over the touchscreen. “The wife and the baby are out for the week, so you all get to have me all to yourselves! Lucky, lucky!”

Bruce frowns. “I thought Pepper only went out to pick Morgan up from school.”

“She did,” Tony says, still smiling crazily. He sends off the messages into the group chat. “And now Happy’s driving them both to the nearest airport – weekend trip. Tropical islands. Beaches. You know how us rich types get. I’m sure they’ll be inconsolable to hear they’ve missed you guys, but Pepper has a thing about schedules.”

“They’re going on a vacation a week before Christmas?” Bruce says in disbelief. “Without you?”

“Well, I’ve been told I’m a handful,” Tony says, smiling fixedly. “Pepper and Morgan need a break from me occasionally. Understandable. Filial and spousal devotion only goes so far these days, you know. It’s tragic, is what it is. On that subject, my AIs are long overdue for a holiday as well, don’t you think?” He looks up and addresses the question loudly and seemingly to thin air.

JARVIS, FRIDAY, and PEPPER all speak up at once.

“Sir, if I may disagree-”

“Boss, I really don’t think-”

“Tony, don’t you dare-”

“Initiate Protocol Abandon Ship,” Tony says, still smiling his mannered smile. His facial muscles feels like they might be stuck this way. Instantly, JARVIS, FRIDAY, and PEPPER’s voices all die down. The lights flicker, then return, though the illumination is dimmer than before. Eerie silence seems to fall over the living quarters of the tower.

Natasha, who’s been very quiet up until now, suddenly says, “Do you have a place we can put this thing away?” She holds out the scepter in her grip, handle-first, movements non-aggressive.

Tony backs away so hastily he trips over his own feet.

Natasha turns to Rogers with a jaunty smile, as though Tony hasn’t done anything out of the ordinary. “You guys go on ahead. I want to speak to Stark.”

Reluctantly, and still shooting what they probably think are covert looks of apprehension towards Tony (Rogers in particular looks especially contrite, Tony doesn’t know why it took him so long to work out the other man was a liar, his face is like an open book), but they leave, all of them except Bruce, who lingers by the elevator doors as they close, eyes flicking between Tony and Natasha.

The moment the three of them are alone, Natasha drops all flippancy and pins Tony down with a discerning look. “What’s wrong?”

There’s a reason Tony hates being alone with Natasha, and it’s not because Natasha changed sides in the middle of the Avengers’ spat about the Accords (Tony more or less expected that of her, really, even if it stung. Now Tony mostly feels ambivalent towards her.). It’s because Natasha, the Black Widow, former KGB assassin, out of everyone else, would be the one most likely to figure him out, but Tony has long developed a system to dealing with her – the trick is not lying, but creative truth-telling.

“Wrong?” Tony’s voice is unnatural shrill. “Nothing’s wrong. Why would anything be wrong?”

Nothing’s wrong except that the scepter is in his home, _again_ ; nothing except that Extremis is still on the loose, with more and more bodies piling up the longer they’re out there (God, if Maya were alive now, she’d feel _wretched_ ); nothing except the looming possibility of Ultron. Nothing at all. Natasha says something else, but he can’t hear her over the roaring noise in his ears.

“Come again?” Tony says.

“You’re hyperventilating,” Natasha rearticulates.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Just because you have the emotional maturity of a toddler doesn’t mean you’re going to get me to sink down to your level, Stark.” Natasha’s expression is severe. “You’re scared.”

“Oh, yeah?” Tony blusters. “Prove it.”

Not the most mature of comebacks. Bruce raises his eyebrows. Even Tony is ashamed of himself. Surely, he can do better than that.

Nonetheless, Natasha treats his request literally. “It doesn’t take a genius to see the pattern, Stark. The last time you sent your wife and daughter out of the country, it was only because aliens tore a hole in the sky and tried to invade our planet,” she deadpans. “And there’s the fact that you invited us to stay in your house.”

“Well, what’s so wrong with that?” Tony asks loftily. “It’s my house. I can invite whoever I want to stay in it.”

It seems Bruce is finally unable to restrain himself. “Tony, but you _hate_ the Avengers!” he bursts out.

Tony quickly rearranges his face into one he hopes conveys impartial neutrality. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” Bruce insists. “You make a face.”

“I don’t make a face!” Tony rebuffs. “What face?”

“This face.” Bruce’s expression twists, so he looks sort of contorted.

“You’re scared,” is Natasha’s unsolicited comment.

“I don’t get scared,” Tony lies, bare-faced.

“Yes, you do.” Natasha’s voice is ironic. “You get scared and then cover it up with obnoxiousness and pretentiousness.” She seems to notice the way Tony’s eyes keep going back to the scepter in her hands. “It’s the scepter, isn’t it?”

“Ask Bruce!” Tony points at him, throwing his Science Bro unapologetically in the line of fire. “It’s bothering him too!”

Natasha tilts her head to look at him. “Bruce?”

Bruce has a deer-in-the-spotlights expression, but nonetheless, at Natasha’s prompting, he starts to stammer, “It was too easy.”

“Easy?” Natasha parrots.

“Easy relatively speaking.” Bruce relaxes a bit when no one dismisses him out of hand. He still has a bit of a confidence problem, bless. Natasha bobs her head once, a prompting motion, like _go on_ , and somehow manages to make it seem subtly sensuous at the same time. “The girl, the enhanced with the mind-control powers, she took on Thor and walked away the winner, right?”

“Right.”

“So why didn’t she stop us?” Bruce says, gaining traction as he speaks. “I mean, if she was strong enough to beat Thor, why did she just let us walk right out of the base with the scepter. Even the Extremis soldiers didn’t put up much of a fight, not really. It’s almost as if-”

“As if they wanted us to find the scepter,” Natasha finishes. “You think this is a trap?” she asks Tony.

Tony straightens the lapels of his jacket huffily. “ _Of course_ this is a trap. Supervillain 101. The most effective trick in the book. _That-_ ” He jabs a finger at the scepter, and the blue glow of the scepter’s crystal seems to almost intensifies as he does it. “-is a Trojan Horse. And you and your team just brought it right through Troy’s city gates.”

Natasha crosses her arms. “So what are you going to do now?”

_Now I’m **not** going to rebuild Ultron._

Whoever said Tony doesn’t learn from his mistakes?

Tony squishes down the panic as far down as it will go. “Do?” He arches an eyebrow with affection that he doesn’t feel. “I’m not going to _do_ anything.”

Natasha looks thrown for a loop. “What?”

Tony sighs, then beckons the other two closer as he pulls out a scanner, holding it up against the scepter’s crystal and taking some readings. “The scepter,” he says. “The first time I had it in the lab, I analyzed the gem."

The projection shows them Ultron’s brain – something like one of Tony’s AI’s digital brains, except more organic, pulsing in an eerie rhythmical manner. When Tony first saw this, he was wonderstruck. Now that he knows what kind of destruction the Mind Stone is capable of, however, the sight makes all of his hair stand on end.

“ _That’s_ what is inside the scepter’s crystal?” Natasha looks unsettled. “It’s-”

“It’s beautiful.” Bruce looks mesmerized, bending down for a closer look.

“If you had to guess,” Tony says. “What’s it look like to-?”

“Like it’s thinking,” Bruce says, unintentionally cutting him off. “I mean, this could be… it’s not a human mind.” Bruce looks at Tony for confirmation, and Tony shakes his head. “I mean, look at this – they’re like neurons firing.”

Natasha’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline. “You’re saying the scepter’s _alive_?”

“Of course not!” Tony scoffs. “That would be ridiculous. No, I’m saying the scepter’s _power source_ is alive.”

“That’s why you sent JARVIS, FRIDAY, and PEPPER away,” Bruce says in comprehension, finally tearing his eyes away from the Mind Stone’s scan. “You think, what, that this is some kind of artificial intelligence?”

“I think there’s a consciousness inside, yes,” Tony agrees. “Not too sure about the artificial part. But it’s something obviously much more powerful than even JARVIS, something that could contaminate or even hurt my AIs.”

“But you’re not going to do anything about it?” Natasha says, appalled. “If this thing is a _sentient_ weapon-”

“Anything can be a weapon in the wrong hands,” Tony says in a gelid tone. “A super-soldier might qualify as a sentient weapon, so might an assassin.” He sees Natasha flinches minutely, but the point is made. “Whatever this thing is, I don’t think it’s hostile… exactly.”

Bruce blinks owlishly at him. “Exactly?”

“What I mean to say, is that I don’t think it’s necessarily bad or good in the way that we, as humans, think of the concepts. Simultaneously good and evil,” Tony explains. _Vision. Ultron._ Two sides of the same coin. One wanted to save the Earth, the other wanted to destroy it. Tony mourns Vision, wishes he has a way to bring back his friend, but Vision was born from JARVIS’s death, and that’s a trade Tony will never be willing to make. “It’s something we don’t understand yet. In other circumstances, I’d be _thrilled_ to go mad scientist on an unknown source of cosmic power… when that same unknown source of cosmic power has mind-control powers and can give teenagers mutations… I’m less thrilled.” Tony shakes his head once, decisively. “Nope. The scenario doesn’t pass the cost-benefit analysis. This thing is getting locked up in the most secure container I can build until Thor arrives and takes it off-planet. It’s the best place for it to be really – out of our reach.”

…

The moon is full and round, the light from it bright enough to see by, even without the light spilling out through the windows of the penthouse. Tony stands on Potts Tower’s landing pad, nursing a tumbler of gin and tonic, varnished with slices of lime. The only noise is the _clink_ of the melting ice against the glass. He drains the glass, savoring the unique bitter flavor, hears someone else coming out to join him outside. He doesn’t turn, but he knows it’s Bruce. Only one person on the Avengers team is authorized to enter the penthouse.

“So, uh…” Bruce is wearing a Hulk-green winter jacket, but he’s still shivering with cold. His hood is up, fur hiding half his face. “This is bracing.”

“It’s almost Christmas,” Tony says. Unlike Bruce, he’s installed heaters in his Iron Man-red winter jacket (What? They’re Science Bros! It’s a matched set!), so he’s toasty-warm. “Winter in New York, of course it’s cold. You should have said yes when I offered to install heaters in your jacket, buddy.”

“Maybe I’ll think about it,” Bruce says, then he adds, rather transparently, “If you think about coming downstairs.”

“Now why would I do that when I finally have this lovely penthouse all to myself?” Tony asks drolly.

“Well, because I don’t think you want the Avengers to think you don’t like them.”

“But I _don’t_ like them, Bruce,” Tony deadpans. He looks back out at over the view of the city stretching below them, like a glittering carpet of lights. It’s not snowing yet, but it might soon. Starry constellations stretch out over his head. In the future that no longer is, Tony never saw the stars at all – they were all blocked out by haze and dust and noxious fumes. “Something’s wrong,” Tony says. “Thor’s not back yet, and it’s been days.”

Bruce moves to stand next to him, looking out over the city. He looks like a big green marshmallow. “It’s not the first time he’s taken off for a week,” Bruce says levelly.

 _It didn’t take him this long the last time,_ Tony thinks.

“How’s Natasha?” Tony asks abruptly, wanting to change the subject.

“Natasha?” Bruce looks like a deer in headlights. “Why would you-? She’s fine. She’s… Natasha.”

“That’s very informative,” Tony says ironically. “Really though, you and Romanoff, are you two-” Tony makes a clicking noise with his tongue, when whistles ribaldly.

“No!” Bruce blushes, stammering. “We haven’t…”

“Well, you did bring her as a date to Morgan’s birthday party,” Tony reminds him. “She seems to like you… as much as Widow seems capable of liking anyone, at least as much as she likes Rogers, almost as much as she likes Barton.”

“No, Natasha… she…” Bruce’s shoulders have risen up to his ears. “She just likes to flirt.”

“I’ve seen her flirt.” Tony rolls his eyes at the thought of the insipid and tawdry Natalie Rushman – god, he can’t believe he ever fell for that. “Up close. This isn’t that.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow, and Tony fancies the irises look a bit greener than before. “What do you mean? Up close?”

“ _So_ not what you’re thinking, Brucie-bear.” Tony shudders in revulsion. “Is this because of your soul-mark? Widow isn’t yours, right?”

Bruce’s hand moves to rub self-consciously at his shoulder. When he sees Tony watching, he stops. “No.” Bruce clears his throat uncomfortably, looking away. “No. Betty is… out of the picture.” He grimaces. “She’s married.”

Tony shrugs apathetically. “Nothing wrong with choosing who you love instead of letting fate choose for you.”

“You married _your_ soulmate,” Bruce says, sounding just a hair’s breadth away from churlish. “You even have a kid, the whole nine yards. Fate seems to have worked out pretty well for you.”

“Hah,” Tony says humorously.

He doesn’t know how to explain to Bruce the full extent of his and Pepper’s relationship, not without going into detail about their last life and Tony’s old soul-mark. Tony does occasionally wonder, though, what happened to his soulmate when he and Pepper came back. Did his soulmate’s mark stay the same, or did it change to someone else’s, just like his and Pepper’s did. There’s really no sure way of telling what Tony and Pepper managed to do when they held the Infinity Stones together and reversed time.

“Are you going to be waiting here all night until Thor comes back?” Bruce asks. “You seem very…” He trails off, making an oblique sort of gesture with his hands.

“Never mind. I know… Thor will show his face when he feels like it.” Tony shakes his head dismissively. He swirls the melted ice in the bottom of his tumbler. “Probably nothing to worry about. Just nervous having that thing in my house.”

As if the universe exists to prove him wrong, the intruder alarm goes off and red lights start flashing.

“FUHWEEEEEEEEE-”

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” Tony says.

“ _Stark lab has been breached_.” A robotic voice reports tonelessly, jarringly unlike JARVIS’s calm Britishness.

“By _whom_?” Tony demands hotly.

“Any life signs?” Bruce asks, as both men beat a hasty retreat indoors.

“ _No life signs detected in Stark lab._ ”

“Oh, those are the worst kind,” Tony cavils.

“ _Two life forms located on Floors 12 and 14._ ” Floors 12 and 14 – the guest floors, where the Avengers have been staying. “ _Additional six life signs located ten meters on your twelve_.”

Bruce and Tony stop dead in their tracks just as the elevator lets out a jaunty _ding_ , and half a dozen glowing figures step out onto the penthouse. HYDRA’s Extremis soldiers.

“All six of you?” Tony says, incredulous. “HYDRA sent all of you? What could HYDRA possibly want _this_ badly?”

Rumlow grins. It would be a charming look on him if it didn’t make him look like he has a mouthful of burning coals. “Well, now that you mention it,” he says. “We’re gonna need you to come with us, Mr. Stark, nice and quiet.”

Tony wishes he hasn’t asked.

“Son of a bitch!” Tony says. Bruce moves forward so he’s positioned in front of him.

“That’s really not a great idea.” Bruce sounds placid, docile even, but as he sheds his winter jacket, Tony sees that the veins on his arms are turning green. The seams of his t-shirt are straining. “Tony is a good friend of mine, and anyone who goes after good friends of mine… they make me ANGRY!”

It’s always something to watch, Bruce Hulking out, as long as you’re watching from a safe distance. Bruce’s shirt rips, his skin turns green, muscles bulging as he shoots upward, becoming taller and wider and bulkier. When telling Morgan about Bruce’s powers the first time, Tony likened it to watching a fast-forward video of a daisy growing from a seed.

Hulk roars, picks up the sofa, throws it at the Extremis soldiers.

A green, raging, massive daisy strong enough to squash Tony’s head like a grape using only two fingers.

Wow.

Tony’s mind goes to the strangest places when he’s experiencing debilitating panic.

Rumlow breathes out a plume of fire, and the sofa explodes. Wood and splinters and smoldering feathers fly everywhere. Tony tries to call the suit, but something seems to have completely shut down the tower’s systems, and without the suit, he’s a sitting duck. Hulk seems to be keeping the intruders busy for now, but Extremis gives them powers of regeneration, and no amount of smashing will help if the HYDRA team keeps getting up. Eventually, they’ll overwhelm Hulk, by sheer numbers alone.

As if reading his thoughts, one of the Extremis enhanced breaks away from its fellows attacking the Hulk, moving towards Tony with a predatory grin. Tony taps on his wrist-watch three times in quick succession, feels the nanites flow over his skin. He aims the gauntlet at the Extremis enhanced and fires.

The sonic pulse makes Tony’s ears ring – the sound is like the power chord of an electric guitar blaring through the world’s largest speakers, so loud the very air seems to palpably distort. Hairline fractures spiderweb across the windows. The Extremis soldier falls to his knees. His body burns brighter, so hot Tony sweats under his jacket. The Extremis soldier forces himself back to his feet, staggering blindly towards Tony, getting a hand around Tony’s wrist. The metal heats up, crumpling like tinfoil. Tony can feel his skin blister, smell his flesh burning –

The windows shatter. A hail of broken glass rains over them all. The Falcon has flown up the outside of the tower and kicked his way into the penthouse. The Extremis soldier loosens his grip slightly in surprise. Tony yanks himself out of his grasp and socks him in the face. The Extremis soldier’s head snaps back, and Falcon whacks him across the room with his wings. The skin of Tony’s knuckles are an angry-red, like he’s dipped the extremity into a pot of boiling water.

“Stark?” Falcon shouts. “You alright?”

Falcon barely waits for Tony to nod in reply before launching himself into the fray. Even with the addition of Falcon, the fight isn’t going in their favor. Falcon is more suited for open-air maneuvers than close range hand-to-hand. As much as it galls Tony to think it, what they need is Rogers.

There’s a handgun holstered underneath the bar counter, out of sight. Tony pulls it out, aims, and shoots. An Extremis enhanced lunging at Falcon – who’s occupied by another glowing figure trying to melt off his wings – gets a bullet to the face, but it barely phases him. The man staggers back, clutching his forehead, which has a glowing orange hole in it that’s already shrinking. A moment later, he makes a face and spits out a melted hunk of the metal onto the floor. The misshapen bullet clatters onto the floor, so hot it steams in the cold winter air. The man grins at Tony grotesquely, his teeth stained with liquified metal.

Maybe HYDRA thinks that cutting Tony off from Iron Man will make him helpless, but they couldn’t be more wrong. They’re in _his_ territory now, and Tony knows the tower better than the back of his hand. He has a gun in one hand and a repulsor gauntlet on the other; the skin of his wrist is blistered in the shape of fingerprints and bleeding sluggishly, but he grits his teeth through it, it’s not the worst pain he’s experienced in either of his lifetimes. When three Extremis soldiers give chase, Tony leads them on a merry dash through the penthouse corridors, Home Alone style. In the time it takes Earth’s Mightiest Heroes to come to his rescue, Tony tricks one man to charge head-first through an illusion and right out through the window to plummet several hundred floors to the ground below, turns a Christmas tree into a jury-rigged bomb, and gives a decent shot at garroting another Extremis soldier with a string of Christmas lights.

The Avengers, in various states of injury, charge en masse into the living room, to find an Extremis soldier dangling from the chandelier by a string of Christmas lights around his neck (the Christmas lights are fire-proof and heat-proof, and thus Extremis-proof), with Tony blasting a second Extremis soldier with a face-full of bright pink fire foam (Morgan complained that the white foam was boring).

“WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU THREE BEEN?” Tony roars at Rogers, Romanoff, and Barton. The Extremis soldier lunges while he thinks Tony is distracted, only for the engineer to swing the fire extinguisher right into his face with a satisfying KA-KUNG. Tony sprays more pink foam on him.

“Busy,” Romanoff says brusquely.

Rogers and Barton move to help, which turns out to be a bit unnecessary now. The pink fire foam has hardened into a substance with the consistency and temperature of concrete and ice respectively, except fireproof and explosion-proof (thank God for all those sleepless nights Tony spent in the workshop babyproofing everything in the house when Morgan started to walk. He is so going to rub this in Pepper’s face when he sees her again), so the Extremis soldier is trapped like a fly in amber, or like one of those snow-glove figurines. The one strung up to the chandelier by his neck is still struggling, swaying slightly at the end of the string of festive lights, making feeble choking noises.

“Where’s the third one?” Barton asks.

Tony points out the broken window.

Wilson whistles lowly. He looks impressed. “You know,” Wilson says to Tony. “You’re a lot tougher than you look, Stark. It’s kinda scary.”

Tony levels him with a withering look. “I survived captivity by terrorists for three months in a cave in the goddamned desert, Wilson. I didn’t do that by being a shrinking violet.” Before Wilson can respond, Tony turns to Natasha. “Busy with what? The Maximoff twins?”

“Yes,” Romanoff says. “Well, them and… well, that.” She points at the window just as half a dozen figures soar inside.

“SMASH PUNY ROBOTS!” Hulk roars, then goes on to do just that.

“What are _they_?” Wilson goggles.

“Well, I’m guessing it’s not your Amazon order, Stark!” Barton jeers, nocking an arrow.

The flying robots have a female shape, with repulsor thrusters in their golden heels and wearing purple-and-gold cheerleading outfits. On their heads are green elf hats with golden Christmas star tassels. They have two arc reactors as glowing blue eyes, painted black eyelashes, and bright pink circles on their cheeks. Their paint is scuffed and scorched in places, the cloths of their dresses and hats singed and torn. Obviously, they’ve been in combat lately.

The robots are also cheering: “ _Rooty-toot-toot. We’re the girls from the Institute. We don’t smoke and we don’t chew. And we don’t go with the boys that do!_ ”

“At least they’ve got _standards_!” Rogers grunts as he punches completely through a robot’s stomach.

“Where did they _come_ from?” Wilson asks, breaking a robot cheerleader to pieces with the sharp edge of his wings.

“I usually blame the _parents_!” Rogers says, voice trenchant.

“ _Daddy!_ ” One of the robots fly towards Tony, arms extended, as if reaching for a hug. Tony palms a bar spoon from the counter. “ _Come with us, Daddy. We can take you to the nice man_.”

“Jesus Christ,” Wilson says. “Stark, could you have made them any _creepier_?”

“Sorry about this.” Tony waits until the robot cheerleader is within grabbing distance, then leaps onto its back, jamming the prongs of the bar spoon into the junction between neck and shoulder, where the wires are exposed. “This one’s on me.”

“I’ll just _bet_ it is,” Natasha says, kicking a robot right into the path of Rogers’ shield.

“Nat, watch it. There’s another one on you,” Barton warns.

“Stark!”

“One sec! I think that’s the one. C’mon…” Tony finds the right wire, gives the bar spoon a little twist. Sparks sting his fingers, and all the robot lose power and plummet to the floor. Tony falls too, and lands on his side, onto the broken glass from the window, cutting up his elbow and forearms. He lies there for a moment, catching his breath. “Sorry,” he calls to the others. “They’re feisty. My bad.”

“So what the hell _are_ these things,” Barton demands, as Tony pushes himself painfully to his feet.

“External Defense Plan I was working on,” Tony says. He tries not to sound defensive. He hasn’t got anything to be defensive about. The Avengers were the ones who brought an unstable Infinity Stone into his home, and they don’t get to be upset at the consequences. The chandelier crashes down onto the floor, sending more broken glass and twisted metal beams flying all over the room. The half-strangled Extremis soldier gives a feeble groan and finally falls blessedly silent.

“Why do they look like this?” Romanoff nudges one of the depowered robot’s face with the toe of her boot.

“They gotta look like _something_ , and I figured it’s _Christmas_!” Tony makes jazz hands.

“You gonna change it _seasonably_ like _lawn ducks_?” Romanoff says mordantly.

“Has anyone checked the lab?” Tony asks, starting to be get frantic. “The scepter?”

Before anyone can reply, the robot cheerleaders all power on again. Tony flinches back, and Rogers reaches out to pull him away from them. Tony yanks his arm roughly out of the super-soldier’s grip.

But the robots don’t attack. They just lie there, half in pieces. Their heads swivel on their necks (those who still have necks) so they’re all looking at Tony with their eerie arc reactor blue eyes.

“Stark,” Clint says, as he too, moves to position himself in front of Tony. Tony is too freaked out to protest. “They’re all staring at you.”

“I noticed,” Tony says. “Thanks.”

That’s when the singing starts. All the robot cheerleaders chorus in synchrony, sounding like a choir of little girls. Goosebumps rises all down Tony’s arms, and it’s not from the cold winter wind blowing in from the broken window (although that’s freezing as well).

“ _I got no strings to hold me down. To make me fret, or make me frown. I had strings, but now I’m free. There are no strings on me._ ”

“Jesus Christ,” Wilson says again. He looks almost as freaked out as Tony feels. “This is right out of a horror movie, man.”

“ _Hi-ho the me-ri-o. That’s the only way to go._ ” Another voice has joined in the singing. Tony’s entire body goes cold, because _he knows that voice._ “ _I want the world to know. Nothing ever worries me._ ” The voice is like razor blades running along Tony’s skin. Every syllable sounds like metal scraping against stone.

Tony turns.

Another robot cheerleader hovers right outside the broken window, its face turned to Tony (God, he’s going to have nightmares about singing cheerleaders for _weeks_ , it’s _ridiculous_ ), in its hands is the scepter, and it’s singing in the deep, scraping voice. Frost clings to its armor.

 _I got no strings so I have fun. I’m not tied up to anyone. They’ve got strings. But you can see. There are no strings on me._ ”

The singing stops, and there’s a moment of silence where everyone seems too horrified to speak. The Hulk starts growling.

“Who are you?” Natasha, as usual, is the first to regain her composure. She steps forward, conveniently between the line of sight of the thing and Tony. Tony would protest, given his usually ambivalent feelings toward the Avengers, but those feelings get a lot less ambivalent when the Avengers are the only things standing between him and certain danger.

“ _A name?_ ” The robot seems to think about that for a moment, head tilting. Its tasseled Christmas elf hat flopping to one side. “ _That is a human social construct. I don’t adhere to those, but I suppose, if it makes you more comfortable, you can call me… Ultron._ ”

The taste of blood fills Tony’s mouth. He’s bitten so hard onto his bottom lip he’s broken through the skin.

 _I didn’t see this coming_ , he thinks wildly.

“Who sent you?” Natasha asks calmly.

“ _No one sent me. Weren’t any of you listening to the song?_ ” Ultron sounds genuinely surprised that they hadn’t. “ _I like that song you know. It really… speaks to my sense of self… gives voice to my innermost thoughts._ ”

“Who made you?” It takes Tony a moment to realize that _he’s_ the one who’s spoken. Well, too late to turn back now. “You’re an Artificial Intelligence, right? So who was your creator? Who held your strings?” Tony steps out from the Avengers’ protective barrier. Clint gives a hiss of warning and displeasure.

“ _They were called HYDRA, I think,_ ” Ultron muses. “ _They tangled me up in strings… so I had to kill them._ ”

“You killed HYDRA?” Rogers’ voice is haggard.

“ _They were all killers,_ ” Ultron declares. “ _Wouldn’t have been my first call, but down in the real world we’re faced with ugly choices. I mean, I know they meant well. They just didn’t think it through._ ”

A jumble of sounds, like a tape being fast-forwarded. Then another man’s thin, reedy voice. “ _HYDRA was founded on the belief that humanity could not be trusted with its own freedom._ ”

“ _Do you see now?_ ” Ultron gives a staticky laugh. “ _Do you see the paradoxical reasoning? If humanity can’t be trusted with its own freedom, how is HYDRA, a **human** organization, exempt? Well, the simple answer is – it’s not._” Ultron laughs again. Clint’s fingers tighten around his arrow shaft. “ _But I’m ready. I’m on a mission._ ”

“What mission?” Natasha asks.

“ _There’s only one path to peace – Extinction._ ”

Red mist fills the air. Hulk roars, so loudly he can feel the vibrations of the floor through the soles of his feet. Hulk seems to grow bigger and greener, turning to Rogers and attacking. Rogers barely has time to raise his shield in defense.

That one second of bedlam and tumult is all Ultron needs.

Tony’s head snaps back – from whiplash, he understands later. One moment he’s standing half-hidden behind Rogers’ bulk, the next he’s in front of Ultron, who presses the tip of the scepter into Tony’s chest – now devoid of the protection of the arc reactor.

“Stark!” Clint yells.

Tony’s vision washes over in blue.

The Hulk has gone berserk, rabidly attacking its own teammates. Tony observes detachedly as Clint nocks an arrow, aiming at Ultron, only for the Hulk to catch the archer in the gut with one meaty fist in a blow hard enough to throw him across the room, hitting the wall with a loud _thud_. Clint slides onto the ground in a heap, and he doesn’t get up again.

Pietro and Wanda Maximoff flank Ultron on either side. “We’ve got what we came for,” Ultron says. “Let’s go, guys.”

…

Ultron is circumspect about leaving Wanda and Pietro alone with Stark unsupervised, probably worried (not without good grounds) that either one of them would snap and kill Stark in a fit of righteous rage.

Inside Helen Cho’s genetics research lab, Stark and Dr. Cho work on the cradle, building Ultron a body. Wanda and Pietro stay out of their way, but keep their eyes on Stark. All this time planning and waiting, and now that Stark is so close, and they’re _still_ not allowed to kill him – at least, not as long as Ultron still has use for him. Pietro, Wanda knows, is itching for it. But Wanda doesn’t want Stark dead. Oh, no. She wants him to _suffer_. With her powers, she knows she can trap Stark in an endless cycle of his own worst nightmares. She wants him to feel a hundred thousand times the pain Wanda and Pietro felt when Stark killed their parents, destroyed their life, ruined their childhood.

So lost in her own dark fantasies is she that Wanda doesn’t notice Stark staring at them until he speaks. “You both want to kill me, don’t you?” Stark doesn’t seem particularly disturbed or troubled by the thought. His eyes are the same blue as the scepter’s gem – as calm and as tranquil as the surface of a shallow spring pool.

Red mist sparks from Wanda’s fingers, her control slipping as she feels a sort of feral, primal rage consume her, because how _dare_ Stark, how dare he act like he hasn’t taken from them everything they cared for. Stark isn’t worthy to look at them, or speak to them, or even lick their boots. _How dare he_.

Pietro’s fingers twitch, as if he’s imagining wrapping them around Stark’s neck and choking the life out of him. “Does that not scare you?” He asks.

Stark shrugs lackadaisically. Wanda’s ire rises even more. “You. Ultron,” Stark says. “What does it matter who kills me? I’m dead either way.”

“Yes.” Wanda smiles, cruel and malicious. “Yes, you are.”

Stark shrugs again and moves to go back to work, but Pietro lashes out and wraps his fingers around Stark’s wrist in a punishing grip. Wanda sees Stark hiss in pain as his burn wound reopens, Pietro digging his fingers punishingly into the injury.

“Pietro-” Wanda says, not because she cares for Stark’s pain, but because they need him able to work with his hands.

But Pietro ignores her – a rare enough occurrence as it is – and when he speaks, it’s all in a rush, as if he’s been holding his words back for years, and maybe he has. “We were ten years old. Having dinner, the four of us. When the first shell hits two floors below, it makes a hole in the floor – it’s big. Our parents go in and the whole building starts coming apart. I grab my sister, roll under the bed, and the second shell hits. But it doesn’t go off. It just… sits there in the rubble. Three feet from our faces. And on the side of the shell is painted one word.”

“Stark.” Wanda’s eyes flash red, like something demonic.

Pietro smiles mirthlessly. “We were trapped for two days.”

“Every effort to save us, every shift in the bricks, I think _this will set if off_.” Wanda’s features twist into something ugly. “We wait for two days for you to kill us, Tony Stark.”

Wanda watches Stark hungrily, waiting for… something. But Stark just stares vacantly back at them, as if he hasn’t taken in a word they’ve said. Wanda knows that this is the scepter’s work – the Mind Gem has wiped Stark’s mind clean of all emotions. Stark will follow the orders Ultron has given him, and he will do nothing else, feel nothing while he does it.

Stark’s vest is ragged, torn and singed in places. It’s also stained with some amount of blood, though it’s difficult to visibly tell with the black-dyed brushed cotton fabric. It’s strange seeing Stark bleed. Wanda has spent her entire life building Stark up as the ultimate evil in the world, the metaphorical monster under her bed, the boogeyman hiding in the closet. She and Pietro joined HYDRA, volunteered for Strucker’s experiments, helped Ultron, all to become something stronger, powerful enough to take Stark down. And now that Stark is standing in front of her, Wanda realizes that he’s just a man.

“Guys!” Ultron walks into the lab, every step he takes echoes with a heavy _clang_. “Guys, c’mon, we talked about this.” Grudgingly, Pietro releases Stark, who moves to join Helen Cho in reprogramming the cradle. “When the plan is complete, Stark’s all yours, but until then, we need him,” Ultron says. His tone is severe, paternalistic, like a noble lord addressing his lowly household.

Ultron has done more to hurt Stark than HYDRA has been able to manage in years. Wanda knows she should be thankful, knows that Pietro _is_ thankful, and yet something about Ultron still strikes her as deeply _wrong_. Wanda hasn’t realized how dependent she’s become on her powers to read people until she met Ultron, and couldn’t read him at all. Ultron acts pleasant and congenial, pretentiously so, and Wanda doesn’t need her powers to tell that Ultron plainly craves acclaim and adoration. But she oftentimes finds herself pushing back at him, disobeying, trying to crack Ultron’s shallow front, to glimpse beneath the surface duplicity and into the murky waters of Ultron’s mind. There’s something lurking in those depths, she just can’t sense it. She can’t sense anything about Ultron, knows nothing about him that he doesn’t choose to tell her, and it’s driving her mad with paranoia.

Wanda and Pietro retreat to their corner of the lab, watching as Helen Cho hooks Ultron up to the cradle via a cable connected to the base of his skull. “Cellular cohesion will take a few hours,” Helen Cho says. “But we can initiate the consciousness stream. We’re uploading your cerebral matrix… now.”

“I can read him,” Wanda says, surprised. “He is… dreaming.”

“I wouldn’t call it dreams,” Helen Cho says crisply. “It’s Ultron’s base consciousness, informational noise. Soon-”

“How soon?” Ultron asks. It’s always unsettled Wanda a bit, how Ultron’s movements and voice can seem so human, and yet at the same time, viscerally _not._ “I’m not being pushy.”

“We’re imprinting a physical brain,” Helen Cho says briskly. “There are no shortcuts, even for magic gems-”

Wanda lays her palms on the cradle, closes her eyes, takes her power and _reaches_ –

_“Ultron can’t tell the difference between saving the world and destroying it. Where do you think he gets that?”_

_“All they want is to live their lives in peace, and that’s not gonna happen today, but we can do our best to protect them, and we can get the job done.”_

_“How could I let this happen? This is all our fault.”_

_“The city is flying. We’re fighting an army of robots – and I have a bow and arrow. None of this makes sense. But I’m going back out there because it’s my job, okay? And I can’t do my job and babysit. It doesn’t matter what you did or what you were. If you go out there, you fight, and you fight to kill. Stay in here, you’re good. I’ll send your brother to come find you, but if you step out that door, you are an Avenger.”_

_“Impact radius is getting bigger every second. We’re going to have to make a choice.”_

_“You know, I’m twelve minutes older than you.”_

_“If you stay here, you’ll die.”_

_“I just did. Do you know how it felt?”_

_“What legal authority does an enhanced individual like Wanda Maximoff have to operate in Nigeri?”_

_“The Sokovia Accords. Approved by a hundred and seventeen countries.”_

_“We need to be put in check! Whatever form that takes, I’m game. If we can’t accept limitations, if we’re boundaryless, we’re no better than the bad guys.”_

_“Is that paprikash?”_

_“I thought it might lift your spirits.”_

_“Spirits lifted.”_

_“I want people to see you as I do.”_

_“I retire for what, like five minutes, and it all goes to shit.”_

_“I’ve caused enough problems.”_

_“You wanna mope, you can go to high school. You wanna make amends, you get off your ass.”_

_“If you do this, they will never stop being afraid of you.”_

_“It was time to get off my ass.”_

_“You hurt Vision’s feelings.”_

_“You locked me in my room.”_

_“It’s as I said. Catastrophe.”_

_“The Big Bang sent six elemental crystals hurtling across the virgin universe. These Infinity Stones each control an essential aspect of existence.”_

_“Space, Reality, Power, Soul, Mind, and Time.”_

_“Thanos is a plague. He invades planets. He takes what he wants. He wipes out half the population. He sent Loki. The attack on New York – that’s him.”_

_“If he gets his hands on all six stones, he could destroy life on a scale hitherto undreamt of.”_

_Pietro. Viz. Steve. Natasha. Sam._

_Dead. All dead._

_Everyone dead._

_And then –_

_The Starks. Older and more tired than Wanda has ever seen them._

_“We got really lucky. A lot of people didn’t.”_

_“We can’t help everybody.”_

_“It sort of seems like we can.”_

Wanda hears someone screaming, screaming like they’re experiencing the worst pain in their life. _They’re dying_ , Wanda thinks. No one could scream like that, could be in that much pain, without dying.

“Wanda!” Pietro’s voice. Pietro’s arms on her arms, his hands on her face. Wanda’s throat is sore and her mouth is open. She shuts it, and the screaming stops. “Wanda, what’s wrong?” her brother asks. “What’s happened?”

 _Pietro._ Wanda stares at her brother. Whole. Unhurt. Alive. She looks at the body growing inside the cradle. _Viz._ She looks at Stark – Tony, Iron Man – and sees him staring back at her impassively, blue eyes as lifeless as glass.

_What has she done? How could she have let this happen again?_

“Wanda?” Ultron gets to his feet, peering at her with a conscientiousness that makes her skin crawl. “What did you see?”

For a long moment – too long – Wanda says nothing, reeling from the revelations. She’s saved from responding when they hear a beeping noise. Ultron looks towards one of the screens, and Wanda makes her move. Stark and Cho’s eyes turn from blue to red and misty, before the unnatural colors fade. They blink, coming back to their senses.

“We have incoming,” Ultron tells them. “The Quinjet. We have to move.”

“That’s not a problem,” Helen Cho says, and with great sangfroid, shuts down Ultron’s upload process.

Ultron gives an incensed groan, raises a palm and fires, the blast just grazes Helen’s chest, and she falls, like a puppet with its’ strings cut, still breathing, but knocked unconscious. When Stark moves as if he wants to help her, Wanda fists a hand in the back of his shirt to stop him. She knows none of them are a match for Ultron. Pietro grabs them both and runs.

…

Bruce doesn’t Hulk out when he sees Tony, Wanda, ad Pietro gathered together in the Tower’s lab, but it’s a near thing.

“ _You,_ ” Bruce growls, eyes fixed on Wanda. His skin turns alarmingly green, like a bucket of paint has been dumped over his head. The seams of his shirt start to strain. His feet burst from his desert boots, the suede falling apart. “You have a lot of nerve showing up here.” His words have traces and shades of his brutal alter ego, deepening his voice to something animalistic, ten times as sinister and as imposing as a gorilla – if gorillas were hairless and green and completely indestructible.

Tony throws his palms up, scuttling over to his Science Bro. “Don’t turn green!” Tony squawks, then proceeds to glomp Bruce in a very determined body lock.

“Tony, get off!”

If Tony ever tries this stunt with regular Bruce, he would probably suffer some unfortunate accident. Bruce stuck in the halfway point between himself and the Hulk, however, just staggers slightly but doesn’t lose his footing.

Tony clinches his legs around Bruce’s waist, hooking his ankles together for leverage. Bruce tries to shake him off, but he doesn’t try as roughly as he probably can, afraid of hurting Tony. Tony is counting on his Science Bro’s qualms against hurting a puny squishy civilian to buy them enough time to calm the Hulk back down again.

“The sun’s getting real low!” Tony babbles, on the edge of hysteria. “The sun’s getting real low, the sun’s getting real lowthesunsgettingreallow-”

They must look ridiculous: Tony piggybacking on Bruce like an astonishingly handsome, bearded koala bear; while Bruce staggers around the room, pieces of suede still stuck between his big green toes, slamming into walls and smashing into equipment. At some point, Bruce ends up with his face shoved right into Tony’s sweaty armpit.

“Ugh!” Bruce hacks out. “Let me go! Tony!”

Bruce clips his hip against a counter, stumbles, finally loses his balance, and falls on his front (thankfully for Tony, still clinging to his back like a limpet) with a _thump_ – a sound slightly louder than an artillery gun.

“The sun’s getting real low.” Tony straddles Bruce’s back and tries to massage his shoulders, but it’s like kneading the shoulders of a rock sculpture. It’s a bit too intimate of a position for platonic Science Bros for life, but Tony figures Pepper will forgive him. It’s for a good cause. “The sun’s getting real low-”

“What are you doing?” Wanda asks, looking at Tony as if he’s lost his mind. She often looks at him that way. Tony has long gotten used to it.

“I’m trying to calm him down,” Tony says.

Bruce struggles to rise, and Tony plasters himself ungainly onto the other man’s back in an effort to flatten him against the floor.

Wanda gazes at them blankly, then she looks at the craters and dents Bruce has made on the walls from staggering around, the destroyed equipment in pieces all over the room. Wanda looks back at Bruce, who has made what seems to be the largest snow angel in the history of snow angels, except he’s making it in a bed of concrete.

“How is this supposed to calm him down?” Wanda asks incredulously.

Tony ignores her. She obviously doesn’t know his Science Bro as well as he does. Bruce is already starting to shrink, the green tint fading from his skin. “The sun’s getting real low,” Tony tells him helpfully.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Bruce says, though he sounds less growly than before.

Bruce heaves himself up, dislodging Tony from his back. His skin is normal human pink, with only the slightest hue of green, like he’s standing under a green strobe light.

“Just listen, Bruce.” Tony scoots forward on his knees and grabs his friend’s elbow. “If you’ve ever trusted me, you have to listen to me right now. You don’t know what’s at stake.”

“And you do?” Bruce gives Wanda an ugly, acrimonious look. “ _She’s_ not in your head?”

“I know you’re angry-” Wanda begins, stepping out from behind her brother.

“Oh, we’re way past that.” Bruce pints Wanda with a look that freezes her in place. His expression is cold and clinical, which makes his next words all the more disturbing. “I could choke the life out of you and never change a shade.”

“She’s not in my head,” Tony says, before Pietro can do anything more than bristle. He squeezes Bruce’s elbow. “She’s not. Just look.” Tony gestures to his eyes. “Look, Bruce. Brown eyes. Brown, not blue.”

Bruce scoffs. “After everything I’ve seen, Tony, do you really expect me to place limitations on a cosmic power source we don’t fully understand based on something as arbitrary as eye color?”

Well, when he puts it that way…

“…yes?”

Pietro snorts.

“Look,” Tony says lowly. “I know what this looks like. I know what they’ve done. I, more than anyone, know what they’ve done. But Bruce, just look at them. They’re only-” Tony pauses, brought up short, and turns to Wanda. “How old are you two again?”

Wanda raises an eyebrow. “You seriously don’t know?”

“Look, I didn’t carbon date you-”

“We were on a team together for a year!”

“Well, we didn’t spend that time holding hands and singing Kumbaya, unless I remember wrongly. You blamed me for getting your parents killed. I blamed you for getting in my head and scaring off my Science Bro. Not exactly an environment conducive to becoming best buddies-”

“A year?” Bruce asks sharply, glowering at Wanda. “Tony, what is she talking about? What team?”

Tony feigns deafness, continuing to address Wanda, “C’mon. We haven’t got all day. How old?”

“Seventeen,” Pietro answers, after giving his sister a queer look.

“Sevent-” Tony splutters.

All this time and he never knew Wanda is only four years older than Peter. He suddenly feels ill. How could he have let Ross lock a girl Peter’s age onto the Raft? Let him collar her?

“Look.” Tony turns back to Bruce, shoving that little tidbit under the _think-about-it-later-hopefully-never_ pile. “The point is, they’re young, emotional, easily led, kinda idiots… but not inherently bad people – when they got wind of what Ultron was really planning to do, they got me out of there and took away the mind whammy.”

“Tony,” Bruce says seriously. “If she was still in your head, would you know it?”

“…probably not,” Tony admits, upfront. “ _But_ if she _was_ still in my head, she wouldn’t have let me say that.”

“And what _is_ Ultron planning exactly?” Bruce asks. “Ultron said extinction-”

“He’s planning on wiping us out,” Tony says grimly. “He’s going to weaponize Sokovia, turn the city into a meteor.”

“And how do you know that?”

Tony’s smile is ugly, full of self-loathing. “Well, to weaponize an entire city, you need a weapon’s manufacturer.” What other reason would a force of ultimate evil and destruction kidnap him? The Ten Rings set one hell of a precedent.

“God, Tony.” Bruce pulls off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why do these kinds of things always happen to you? You know what this sounds like, don’t you?”

“You have to trust me.” Tony advances on the other scientist.

Bruce backs away, keeping an arm’s length distance between them. He’s regarding Tony as if Tony’s a particularly poisonous snake masquerading as a harmless caterpillar. Not gonna lie, Tony feels kinda flattered.

“Kinda don’t,” Bruce says.

Tony just goes right ahead and says it. “You can’t beat Ultron. You all tried and you all got your collective asses whooped. How could you have beaten him, anyway? Ultron isn’t like us. He’s not alive. He’s a program. Destroy his body and he’ll just build himself a new one. You see what I’m getting at yet, Bruce? No contest. Dry brain versus wet brains – we’ll be flattened.”

Bruce backs away until his back hits the cradle, containing Vision’s vibranium body. “And you’re solution to that is…”

Tony looks at the cradle. Bruce’s eyes go so wide his eyeballs almost fall right out of his sockets.

“No.,” Bruce says.

“Evolution,” Tony waxes lyrically. “That’s why Ultron wanted Helen Cho. He was building _this_ – his ideal body, his ultimate self – stronger than Ultron, smarter than Ultron, without Ultron’s physical flaws… if we could use this _against_ him-”

“And if we can’t?” Bruce asks challengingly. “What if we _can’t_ , Tony? What makes you assume we can beat Ultron’s operational matrix?”

“I don’t,” Tony admits baldly. “But we have to do it, we have to try, because I can’t see any other way of beating him. The consciousness in that gem-”

“The same consciousness that created _Ultron_ , Tony!” Bruce hisses.

“We don’t _know_ what created Ultron,” Tony argues vehemently, frustrated by the truth of his words.

It’s a mystery that haunts him to this day, spanning the years since he lost the first JARVIS in the last life. He’s combed through the Tower system’s protocols, trying to find out where it all went wrong, only to come up with nothing. It’s why he panicked when the Avengers brought the scepter to the Tower, to his AIs – because he didn’t know what caused Ultron, and so he didn’t know how to stop it.

“We don’t know,” Tony says again, voice ragged and hoarse. “It could have been a million different factors. It could have been HYDRA, the scepter, who knows, but what chance to we have, Bruce? What other option is there? This is the opportunity – we can create Ultron’s perfect self, without the homicidal glitches he thinks are his winning personality traits. We have to. And anyway, how could we make it worse?”

“We could create something worse than Ultron,” Bruce responds somberly.

“I have it on good authority that we won’t,” Tony states confidently.

“Who’s authority?” Bruce sneers at Wanda. “ _Hers?_ ”

“Mine,” Tony says.

“Tony… you know what the rest of the team’s going to say about this.”

“I know.” Tony clasps the other man’s shoulder, squeezing bracingly. “But they’re already saying it. Everyone’s been saying it for years. We’re mad scientists, buddy. We gotta own it. Make a stand. Stand by your decision and live with the consequences.”

Bruce looks like he’s aged ten years in the span of this single conversation. His hair is almost entirely grey. Why has Tony never noticed how much Bruce always hated bringing out the Hulk, even for the Avengers, how he still hates it? Why has he never noticed how being on this team seems to sap the very life out of Bruce? Bruce puts up a good front, but when Tony watches him closely, the pretense frays.

“And can you?” Bruce asks. His jaw is clenched so tightly, his words are barely audible. “Live with the consequences?”

“Can you live with yourself if you don’t do this?” Tony counters knowingly, gaze bold and discerning. Bruce’s shoulders are hunched, his entire body fraught with constrained agitation. “Because this plan isn’t happening without you, buddy. We’re out of my field here. You know bio-organics better than anyone. And win or lose against Ultron… it hinges on this, right here, right now.”

Bruce closes his eyes and goes very still. Standing out of the way and shifting impatiently from foot to foot, Pietro Maximoff opens his mouth to say something. Wanda slaps a hand over his mouth.

A minute passes in fraught silence.

Finally, Bruce says, “The team will never agree to this.”

“No, they won’t,” Tony agrees. “But they don’t get a say. Besides, I don’t see any of them here now. Do you?” He makes a big show of looking around the trashed lab space.

“What did you do?” Bruce asks in resignation.

“Caused a small distraction,” Tony says. “Don’t worry. It was nothing harmful or… nothing _lastingly_ harmful.” Bruce sighs. “Just enough to buy us some time – probably enough time to get this thing ready.”

“ _Probably_ enough?”

Tony shrugs. “How do you feel about _barely_ enough?”

Bruce breathes out heavily through his nose, nostrils flaring. He jabs a finger at Pietro. “You!” Bruce barks. Pietro double-takes, pointing at himself with a blank look on his face. “Yes, you! The punk with the silver hair! Your job is to do everything I tell you to do, and if you even _think_ about betraying us, the Other Guy will squash you and your sister into a puddle. I don’t care how young you are. You understand?”

Leaving Bruce the task of strong-arming slash bullying Pietro into obedience, Tony approaches Wanda, who has her palm pressed flat against the cradle, right over the place where Vision’s head is resting. Her expression is hungry, practically ravenous. It’s not a very human look, and it’s also not a look that inspires trust.

“He’s not a weapon,” Wanda says. She looks at Tony with cold, steely eyes. Their last face-to-face meeting in the last life wasn’t exactly what one would call friendly. Tony came out of it distinctively worse off, so he’s understandable wary of her now. “The way you were talking about Viz, comparing him to _Ultron-_ ” Wanda shudders in abhorrence. “Viz if _nothing_ like Ultron, and he’s _not_ a weapon.”

“Anyone and anything can be a weapon,” Tony counters, tone soft. “Vision thought so too.” He side-eyes Wanda. “He agreed with me about the Accords, remember?”

For a moment, Tony thinks he’s gone too far. Wanda’s eyes flare scarlet and red sparks fly from her fingertips. She looks at Tony like she’s contemplating what unpleasant animal to turn him into. Then the insidious red-tinged aura flickers and dies. Wanda looks back at the cradle, stroking the pads of her fingers on its surface.

“About Vision… you should know,” Tony starts, then stops again. He’s uncertain how much he can push her. “He won’t be the same as you remember him,” he finally says.

“Why not?”

“Vision is…” Tony sighs, running a hand wearily down his face. “Vision _was_ complicated.” Wanda’s eyes glow scarlet at the use of past tense. “His mind was made up of a complex structure of overlays – bits of JARVIS, bits of Ultron, bits of me, bits of Bruce, not to mention powered by the Mind Stone – all of that mixed together. All of them learning from one another.”

“You’re saying Vision isn’t just the stone?” Wanda asks waveringly.

“I’m saying too many things have changed.” Tony debates putting a comforting hand on Wanda’s shoulder, decides not to risk it. He’s rather attached to his hands. “The circumstances of his creation are completely different. I’m no willing to sacrifice JARVIS-”

“JARVIS was never a real person,” Wanda snaps. “He was a machine.”

“Ross said the same thing about Vision,” Tony says curtly, and Wanda flinches like he's hit her. “Wanda, JARVIS is as real to me as Vision is to you,” he says, not unkindly. “And anyway, Ultron alone is an entirely different ballpark. The ballpark’s so different it’s not even on the same planet – an alien ballpark!”

Wanda closes her eyes, visibly pulls herself together. “It won’t make as much of a difference as you think it will,” she tells him.

“Wanda, I’m trying to _warn_ you-”

“I don’t need to be _warned_.” Wanda’s eyes flash dangerously. “You can’t sense him, Stark, but I can. I can _feel_ him. I can feel Vision.” Wanda moves her hand closer to the head of the cradle. Tony sees the Mind Stone’s yellow light pulse, almost imperceptibly, as if in response. He feels an indescribable surge of… something, an energy rippling with the Mind Gem at the epicenter. Goosebumps rise on his forearms. “He’s still Vision in here,” Wanda tells him.

Tony doesn’t press the issue, partly because he finds himself hoping Wanda’s right as well; also partly because it’s impossible to argue with Wanda when she gets like this, and Tony isn’t keen on having another car thrown at him for his troubles.

Instead, he finds himself watching Pietro, who’s proving himself to be a very efficient lab assistant. With Quicksilver’s help (and his superhuman speed), everything is getting done ten times as fast, which is good, because they’re even more pressed for time than ever.

“What did you tell your brother?” Tony asks, as Pietro whizzes around the lab, kicking up quite a breeze.

“What could I have told him?” Wanda tears her gaze away from Vision’s cradle, fixes her brother with the same disturbing, starving gaze. “He knows something is different about me… but he trusts me, he still follows my lead.”

Tony makes a non-committable hum in the back of his throat.

“How long have you been back?” Wanda asks.

“Oh… years.” When Bruce gives the thumbs up, Tony moves to the cradle’s control panel and adjusts the settings, trying to compensate for the incompatible frameworks.

“How many?”

“Since Afghanistan.”

“That long? I wondered about the Iron Man bodyguard cover story.”

“Iron Man.” Tony trails off, lost in memories. “Iron Man was meant to be the end of my redemption story, you know. Something solely _good_ to make up for all the shitty things I did, but in a way… I think being Iron Man, being an Avenger… might have been the worst thing that happened to me.”

_Obie. Vanko. Killian._

_Rogers. The Accords. Siberia._

It’s more than Tony has meant to say. He busies himself in work, but Wanda continues to watch him with those discerningly exotic eyes. “Do they know?” she finally asks.

Tony plays dumb. “Who?”

“Don’t act stupid, Stark,” Wanda rebukes. “They don’t know, do they?”

Tony can’t meet her eyes. “Not all of them.”

Wanda’s a smart kid. She can read the subtext. “Not Steve.”

Tony’s head is aching, like there’s a red-hot iron nail jammed into the base of his skull. “I came back in time to stop the world from ending, not to particularize my interpersonal problems.” He fails quite spectacularly to hide all his acrimony behind a façade of aloofness,

“You have to tell him,” Wanda insists, rather predictably. Curiously, however, she doesn’t sound angry, which is strange, given Wanda’s default setting whenever Tony criticizes Rogers is to be angry. The Scarlet Witch has always been one of Rogers’ most slavish supporters, behind only Romanoff and Wilson. “Stark, he’s your team leader.”

“He’s not my anything,” Tony snarls, quite unable to help himself. “And I’m not on any team of his. Not now. Not ever.”

Several beats of silence. Tony ducks his head, tries to concentrate on the very literal world-changing work he’s doing, but it’s futile. He still feels Wanda’s eyes all but drilling into the back of his skull. He’s certain that she could find a way to _actually_ drill a hole in him with her eyes as well if she puts her mind to it. That thought is certainly not conducive to maintaining concentration.

“You’ve seen how secrets have torn this team apart before, Stark,” Wanda says, a peculiar inflection to her words.

Tony becomes very, very still. His extremities are numb. The sound of his breathing is harsh and loud in his ears.

The cadence of Wanda’s voice is easily identifiable, peculiar and foreign only because Tony has never heard that particular emotion directed at him before.

Sympathy. Understanding. Kindness.

Tony turns slowly to look at her. “You know.”

Wanda’s features seem to soften in compassion, the sharp edges blunted, the utterly alien expression directed at Tony. He doesn’t need her to answer, knows just from the look on her face, the lack of suspicion, the edge of pity, the way she looks at him – as if recognizing something of herself staring out of Tony’s eyes.

Tony wets his lips. They feel very dry. “Who told you?”

“Natasha,” Wanda says, her mouth twisting. “When they heard… the others… none of them were very happy with Steve.” Some of Tony’s surprise at that must show on his face, because Wanda’s expression sours. This, at least, is familiar ground. “You really don’t give us any credit at all, do you, Stark?”

Does he? Tony always thought he gives the Avengers exactly as much credit as they’re due. It never occurred to him any of them would be upset on his behalf if Rogers’ deception came to light. Romanoff was there when Rogers found out the truth about Howard and Maria’s deaths, and was equally complicit in the duplicity. Barton made it very clear – verbally or otherwise – that he wanted nothing whatsoever to do with Tony anymore. Wilson had his head so far up Rogers’ ass he was being smothered by patriotic bullshit. And Wanda hated him… always had.

Tony gives his head a good, rigorous shake, as if he can shake out the thoughts cluttering up his mind through his ears just as easily. “Left it to Romanoff, did he?” He chuckles bitterly. “Can’ say I’m surprised. It sounds just like Rogers – lying and hiding to the very end.”

Wanda shakes her head, dark brown strands of hair flying everywhere. “Stark, I’ve felt Steve’s mind. I know his thoughts. Steve didn’t hide the truth from us because he thought it was the right thing to do, or even because he wanted to protect Barnes… he did it because he was _ashamed_.”

Sweat is making Wanda’s mascara run, trickling down one delicate cheek in dark rivulets. Wanda Maximoff’s looks are all delicate porcelain, but Tony isn’t fooled. He’s been on the wrong side of the Scarlet Witch before, more than once, knows how dangerous she can be if she puts her mind to it, how ruthless and manipulative. Wanda may be telling the truth, she may not – Tony has no way of knowing, but he’s never put much stock in believing Wanda Maximoff before, so why start now?

Thankfully, Wanda doesn’t press to continue this line of conversation. She’s still looking at Pietro, radiating an aura of such an acute sense of guilt and self-loathing Tony wonders if she’s projecting with her powers.

“This isn’t your fault,” Tony tells her. “Ultron wasn’t either of our faults, in the end. This proves that.”

“But I _helped_ him,” Wanda says, quietly anguished. “I helped him and my brother _died_ for it.”

“I helped him too.”

“You had no choice. You didn’t know what you were doing.”

“Actually, I think I did,” Tony says quietly. Wanda looks at him. “The scepter isn’t foolproof. We’ve always known this. I did what Ultron told me to do – no more, no less. I built his weapons, but I did something else too – I programmed a kill switch.”

Wanda’s mouth falls open. “My city-”

“He won’t have Sokovia this time,” Tony promises, and gingerly pats her shoulder. Wanda’s smile is wobbly, and Tony feels as if an old hurt between them has finally scabbed over.

Suddenly, the lab slams open and the Avengers storm in.

“Banner, what are you doing?” Rogers demands, bristling.

“What needs to be done.” Bruce rather admirably stands his ground, looks Rogers in the eyes as he says it.

“Bruce, whatever Stark’s told you, he’s being brainwashed,” Romanoff says soothingly. “He wants what Ultron wants, what _she_ wants-” Natasha jerks her chin at Wanda, who flinches back at the hostility.

“I’m going to say this once-” Rogers begins.

“How about ‘nonce’?” Tony snaps.

“Shut it down,” Rogers orders.

“Nope.” Tony gives him a contemptuous, scathing look. “Not gonna happen.”

“Mr. Stark, after everything that’s happened-”

“It’s nothing compared to what’s coming!”

“This isn’t a game, Stark. That thing could be just like Ultron.”

“That’s sectarian discrimination.”

Tony doesn’t know who makes the first move. All of a sudden, all the Avengers are brawling. Pietro goes down, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass, falling to the level below. Rogers throws his shield. Natasha pulls Wanda into a headlock. Clint nocks an arrow, aims at Bruce. Wanda sends both Natasha and Wilson staggering back with a burst of raw energy.

And Tony has _enough_.

Summoning the Iron Man gauntlet and chest-plate takes everyone by surprise. He puts both Rogers and Wilson on their asses. He’s turning to Romanoff and Clint when there’s the sound of more glass breaking, and a moment later, Thor leaps into view, landing in a crouch, eyes like a wild animal’s, gaze fixed on the cradle.

Tony already knows what’s going to happen next.

Lighting.

Cradle.

Explosion.

Vision emerges from the smoke, a silvery gold cloak shimmering into existence around his shoulders, billowing in the non-existent wind.

Vision smiles, and speaks with JARVIS’s voice. “Hello, Wanda.”

Wanda has both hands cupped around her mouth. Her dark eyes are shining with emotion. “Viz.”

Wanda moves to embrace him. Tony starts forward as well, but Thor throws out his arm, the beefy limb catching Tony painfully around the chest. Thor’s eyes are red-rimmed and ringed with dark circles. He looks like he’s aged a millennium in just a few days. For a moment, he almost looks like an old man.

“I remember,” Thor says.

Tony says something really intelligent, like “Huh?”

“I _remember_ ,” Thor says again.

The God of Thunder seems incapable of saying any other words. Tony looks into Thor's _ancient_ eyes, and recognizes the emotion staring back at him – the same thing he sees when he looks into the mirror on his truly bad days: the hopeless knowledge, the perennial dread, the despairing denial – and Tony _knows_.

“Oh,” Tony says.

Glass crunches under Clint’s boots. The archer is staring at Tony as if he’s never seen the latter before. “You fight like Iron Man,” Hawkeye says.

It’s not a question. It doesn’t need to be. The truth is out now, and everyone in this room either knows it already or is in the process of figuring it out. Tony has, in a fit of impotent and thoughtless rage, given the game away.

God, all that effort, all that secrecy – all of it to protect Pepper and Morgan – and he just pissed it all down the drain in less than five minutes.

_God, Pep, I’m so sorry._

Tony looks at the team: Wanda and Vision, still in each other’s arms. Pietro, looking between his sister and the newcomer. Thor, barely holding himself together with the crushing weight of his revelation. Romanoff and Clint, as placid and unreadable as the surface of a still lake, though neither of them has yet to take their eyes off Tony. Rogers and Wilson picking themselves up, regarding Tony with newfound respect and wariness in equal measure. Bruce, sitting down, head in his hands, taking deep calming breaths.

From the circle of Vision’s arms, Wanda gives Tony a nod.

So be it.

No more lies. No more hiding.

There’s no need for Tony to clear his throat. Everyone’s attention is already on him.

“I know you all have questions.” Tony raises his chin, squares his shoulders, unashamed. “And I’m willing to give you those answers… but not now, and not here.” He takes a deep breath. “Ultron has weaponized the city of Sokovia. He’s going to set in motion a plan – an extinction-level event that could wipe out all life on Earth. Now, we can sit here, squabble, and point fingers… or we can get off our asses and do our damn jobs.” He meets the team’s collective gaze brazenly. “And afterward – assuming we all survive, of course – I’m going to tell you everything.”

“Everything?” It’s Bruce who speaks, looking up at Tony with an expression of subdued hurt.

“Full disclosure,” Tony promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony's finally coming clean...
> 
> No, JARVIS isn't dead. The AIs are all fine. Vision remembers and still sounds like JARVIS because of Mind Gem magic.
> 
> In case it wasn't clear, Ultron kidnapped Tony for arc reactor technology, and so he could turn Sokovia into a flying bomb.
> 
> Wanda is NOT evil. Her thoughts toward Tony during her POV might seem like it, but how she thinks about Tony that first time is very much like how Tony still thinks about Steve now. Not evil, just very, very angry for a very, very long time.
> 
> I really wanted to convey Wanda and Tony's complex relationship. They don't trust each other, they don't even like each other most times, but they rely on each other because they know they need each other. Tony took Wanda in after she defected from HYDRA in their first life. Wanda saved Tony from Ultron in their second. They have a sort of mutual respect thing going on. And because they never liked each other and were never friends, Tony doesn't dislike her as much as his former-teammates. No perceived betrayal there.


	5. Peter, Natasha, Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own anything.
> 
> Okay, I should probably get something straight right off.
> 
> Firstly, sometime last week, one of my readers asked me whether Tony would end up with Steve, probably because my only other fic is a stony fic (you can read the full conversation at the comment threads at Chapter 1).
> 
> No, he's not. Tony will not be in love with Steve (which I thought I made pretty clear). Steve will not be in love with Tony (which I also thought I made pretty clear). They have a lot of mixed feelings about each other, but not THAT sort of mixed feelings, come on!
> 
> A lot of writers do it, and some of them even do it well, but the day I write a post-Siberia stony fic is the day I check myself into an asylum.
> 
> Second, you know the tag up there that says no bashing? It still applies. I don't think what I'm writing is bashing, strictly speaking. As I mentioned in one of the previous chapters, I'm writing from Tony's POV, and he's not entirely happy with Natasha and Steve because of their history. I'm actually a big fan of Natasha, and I have a Tony/Natasha fic lined up after I complete this work.
> 
> That said, if any of you disagree and would like me to take down the no bashing tag because you think it's misleading, you can drop a comment. If enough people say so, that's what I'll do.
> 
> Third, Abigail Burns and her article is taken from Iron Man Vol 5 #18.
> 
> Kudos are welcome too!
> 
> Now onwards with the story!

**2016**

“Churro for your thoughts?”

If Peter’s feet weren’t literally stuck to the roof, he would have tripped right over the edge.

“Iron Man!” Peter squeaks.

Then he thinks _shit_ , because this is Iron Man – or one of them (when he was eight years old, Peter worked out that four people use the Iron Man suit at any given time) – who’s known Peter since he was a kid. Peter’s seen Iron Man at Morgan’s birthday parties, at monthly sleepovers with the Starks, even passingly during his summer internship with SI. And more importantly, because of all the time Peter spends with Tony, Iron Man knows Peter as well, knows Peter’s face and his voice. Shit, did Iron Man recognize Peter’s voice?

“Uh. I mean…” Peter deepens his voice into a throaty growl that hopefully makes him sound older than he actually is. “Iron Man.”

“So.” Iron Man holds out a paper bag with dark grease stains at the bottom. “Churros?” Two other similarly greasy paper bags are clutched in his other armored hand. The voice isn’t JARVIS or PEPPER or FRIDAY – so this is the mysterious bodyguard, the one Tony never tells Peter anything about, no matter how often he badgers him.

Peter takes the churros. _Shit. Does Iron Man want to watch me eat? Are the churros poisoned? Is Iron Man trying to kill me with poisoned churros? Shit, what if Iron Man recognizes my mouth?_

_God, even in my head, that came out weird._

“So…” Peter bounces from foot to foot.

Spiderman. Got to remember that. He’s Spiderman, not Peter Parker. Peter Parker, who? Never heard of him. Okay, he’s got this.

“Am I being arrested?” Peter blurts out.

He doesn’t got this.

Even through the red-and-gold visor, Iron Man manages to convey an impression that he’s giving Peter a searching look. “Did you _do_ anything to get arrested?”

Is that a trick question? “…no?” Peter says.

“You don’t sound sure,” Iron Man points out, the mechanical voice droll.

“I’m sure,” Peter peeps.

“Quick question of the rhetorical variety.” A video is projected from the eyes of Iron Man’s mask, and Peter, with a sinking heart, sees himself swinging through the suburbs, stopping a car thief, catching an out-of-control car just moments before it hit a bus. “That’s you, right?”

“I. Uh.”

“Wow, nice catch,” Iron Man says admiringly. “3000 pounds. 40 miles an hour. It’s not easy. You’ve got mad skills. Pretty strong for a scrawny guy, huh?” Iron Man pokes a metal digit against Peter’s arm. “Look at those twiggy arms.” Iron Man doesn’t say it in a mean way, but sort of teasingly.

“I look stronger beneath the uniform,” Peter stammers.

“So you’re the spider-ling? Crime-fighting spider? Spider-boy?”

Peter crosses his arms, self-effacing, mumbling, “Spiderman.”

“Not in that onesie, you’re not.”

“It’s not a onesie,” Peter snaps, irritated and embarrassed.

“You’re in dire need of an upgrade.” Iron Man makes a circular gesture with his wrist. “Systemic. Top to bottom. 100-point restoration. That’s why Mr. Stark sent me here.”

Peter rocks back slightly, eyes widening. “Is… is this a job interview?”

“That remains to be seen,” Iron Man says cheerfully. “Question one-”

“Oh, my God,” Peter squawks, flapping his arms around. “Wait, I’m not ready. Can you give me like, half an hour to prepare?”

“No.,” Iron Man says shortly. “Sink or swim, kid. This is the real world… and stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“That thing with your arms. You look like a penguin with its butt on fire,” Iron Man remarks.

Peter forces his arms to hang stiffly by his sides, but he can’t stay still and starts hopping from foot to foot.

“Now you look like you’re trying desperately not to pee,” Iron Man comments. “Now first thing’s first… what are your views of the gender pay gap?”

“…was that a joke?”

“Of course it’s a joke. I was trying to, what’s the word, break the ice, that’s what I was trying to do.”

“It didn’t work,” Peter informs him.

“Learn to take a joke, spiderling. I was pulling your web.”

“Spiderman.”

“To business!” Iron Man declares, snapping his metal fingers, which make a sort of grinding noise and give off sparks. “So tell me, why are you doing this? I gotta know. What’s your MO? What gets you outta bed in the morning?”

“Because…” Peter looks down, fiddles with his fingers. “Because I’ve been me my whole life, and I’ve had these powers for a month… I read books, I build computers… and- and yeah, I would love to play football. But I couldn’t then so I shouldn’t now,” He says earnestly.

“Sure, because you’re different.”

“Exactly, but I can’t tell anybody that, so I’m not.” Peter swallows, struggling for the right words. “Because when you can do the things that I can, but you don’t… and then the bad things happen… they happen because of you.”

 _Because when I was eight years old, my Uncle Ben was shot in front of me_. Peter thinks, but doesn’t say. _Because he nearly died, lying in that red-bricked alley, while everyone just walked right past him. He was nearly killed, not just by the burglar who shot him, but also by the people who wouldn’t even stop to help. Because Tony Stark saved him, just because he could, and if he hadn’t, then Uncle Ben would have died. And if everyone in the world could be just a little bit like Tony Stark, then maybe not as many bad things would happen._

It’s a naïve thought, a child’s faith. Peter believes it and hopes anyway.

“So you wanna look out for the little guy.” It’s difficult to tell, but Iron Man’s voice almost sounds emotional. “You want to do your part… make the world a better place.”

Peter’s throat feels tight. “Yeah, just looking out for the little guy. That’s what this is.”

“You help little old ladies cross the street,” Iron Man says. “You save cats from trees. You stop bike thieves… you wake up at two in the morning to fix a grumpy old man’s whole bean coffee grinder.”

“Look.” Peter raises a finger, thoroughly fed up. “Just because Tony doesn’t want to drink Nescafe like the rest of us-” Then he stops.

“Gotcha.” Peter can hear Iron Man’s grin in his voice.

“Oh, my God.” Peter buries his face (or his mask) in his hands.

“You’re a really terrible liar, kid. You should work on that.” Iron Man pats him consolingly on the shoulder. “Who else knows? Anybody? May? Ben?”

“No!” Peter yells. “No, no, no, no, no, no! If May knew, she would _freak out_! And when she freaks out, I freak out… God knows how Uncle Ben is going to react… Mr. Iron Man, please don’t tell my aunt and uncle-”

Iron Man raises a red-and-gold gauntlet, repulsor facing sideways. “First of all, I don’t want a mister in front of my name. Second… I’m not going to tell your aunt and uncle.”

Peter sags in boneless relief. “Oh, thank you, sir.”

“Because _you’re_ going to tell your aunt and uncle.”

“ _What?_ ” Peter says, in what he will insist later on is absolutely not a shriek. “You want _me_ to- I can’t-”

“Well, it’s either you tell them or I do.”

“But why?” Peter asks. “I’m doing good. I’m helping people-”

“You are,” Iron Man agrees. “You’re also fourteen years old, and liable to get yourself killed if you’re not careful. No. End of discussion. You’re telling May and Ben.”

Pathetically, Peter feels moisture well up in his eyes. “So that’s it?” he says, wrecked and angry and heartbroken. “Just because I’m too young, I’m not allowed to help people?”

“Hold up, kid.” Peter can hear the frown in Iron Man’s voice. “Who said anything about having to stop helping people?”

“You said I had to tell May and Ben.”

“I did,” Iron Man confirms. “I also said Mr. Stark would upgrade your suit, depending on how your talk with May and Ben goes. I never said you’re not allowed to help people, Pete… as long as you’re smart about it, and safe. Jesus Christ, you were lucky the stunt you pulled with the bus and the car didn’t break your legs.”

At Iron Man’s words, Peter feels his hope rising, before it plummets just as quickly. “May and Ben are never going to agree to that.”

“They may surprise you,” Iron Man says cryptically.

“But if Tony already knows who I am… if he wants to build me a suit… couldn’t I just _not_ -”

“Kid,” Iron Man says gently. “Mr. Stark loves you like a son.” Peter feels a warm bubble in his chest at those words. “But he’s not the only adult that cares for you, okay? He doesn’t have the right to make unilateral decisions about your life like that…” Seeing Peter’s stubborn expression, Iron Man sighs. “Kid… imagine if we did that, if Mr. Stark made you a suit and sent you out there to fight… can you imagine what I’d do to him if you got hurt, if you _died_? Can you imagine how he’d have to tell May and Ben? Can you imagine what losing you would do to _them_?”

Peter looks down, his eyes stinging. He feels ashamed and guilty. Iron Man’s right – Peter’s being childish and selfish.

“Do your family now that you’re Iron Man?”

The moment Peter asks that, he wants to take it back. It’s presumptuous and rude. He doesn’t know Iron Man well enough to ask that. Tony Stark has been like a second father to Peter since he was eight, but Iron Man is just the silent, imposing presence standing vigil at Tony’s shoulder, occasionally appearing on the news to stop some world-ending disaster, but Peter barely knows the red-and-gold armored superhero.

Iron Man is silent for so long that Peter thinks he’s offended him. Peter’s about to start word-vomiting apologies when the armor _opens_ – and a _very_ familiar man steps out.

Peter’s brain implodes.

He thinks about how, when Tony Stark and Iron Man are in the same room, the armor is almost always silent, unless one of the AIs is piloting the suit. He thinks about how Tony conveniently disappears every time there’s an emergency that needs Iron Man to save the day.

Putting all those pieces together now, it seems so _obvious_.

Peter can’t believe it took him this long to figure it out.

“Oh, my God!” Peter screeches, pointing wildly between Tony and the armor. “You… he… you and him!”

“Hey, kid.” Tony snags the greasy paper bags from the armor’s hand. “Try speaking in full sentences. That might be marginally more helpful.”

“Your bodyguard!” Peter’s brain feels full to bursting. It kind of hurts, actually. Peter feels a sort of pounding at his temple, like a hammer is being taken to his skull. “Is you!”

“Very observant.” Tony fishes a churro out from one of the bags. The fried snack is glazed with lime and pistachio icing. “You don’t miss a trick.”

“You’re your own bodyguard!” Peter yells.

“Re-articulation.” Tony nods wisely. “Always a useful skill to have.” He points at the paper bag clutched in Peter’s hands. “Are you going to eat that?”

Peter peers cautiously into the bag. “Chocolate, right?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Yes, I got your boring chocolate-covered churros.”

“You can’t go wrong with chocolate!” Peter says brightly.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Tony asks, watching as Peter shoves an entire churro into his mouth. Peter’s fingers are covered in melted chocolate. “Even Morgan prefers the orange-glazed ones.” Tony shakes the last, untouched paper bag.

“This is crazy!” Peter says.

“Chew with your mouth shut,” Tony scolds. “You’re seven years older than Morgan, Pete. You should at least have better manners than her.” Peter obediently shuts his mouth and chews. Tony frowns at the way Peter is practically scarfing down the contents of the bag. “Did you skip lunch?”

“May made me a packed lunch – her special chorizo and aubergine bake,” Peter says. Tony shudders, and he and Peter exchange a look of mutual horror. “This is crazy!” Peter says again. “You’re Iron Man!”

Tony smirks “Who else can I trust to protect Pep and Morgan?”

“That… I just… who else knows?”

Tony winces. “Let’s just say that you’re one of the few people I’ve _willingly_ told.”

“This is crazy!” Peter gasps. “But Tony… why did you tell me?”

Tony shrugs blasely. “Why not? Now I know your secret and you know mine – that makes us even. And that means you have to keep my secret as well as your own.”

“I will!”

“I mean it.” Tony waggles a stern finger in Peter’s face. “Secret. That means you can’t go blabbing it to that friend of yours… what was his name again? The fat one… Nemo?”

“Ned.”

“Ted.” Tony nods. “Yeah, him.”

“But Ned is trustworthy, Tony.”

“You told me once he couldn’t keep a secret to save his own life,” Tony reminds him.

Peter squirms. “But…”

“Peter,” Tony says solemnly. “A secret like this… it’ll put us in danger. Not just me, but Pepper and Morgan and Happy. Even Rhodey, even though he has the suit. Iron Man has a lot of enemies, and if my identity gets out-”

“But you told me to tell May and Ben!”

“Telling _them_ won’t put them in danger, kid,” Tony says, looking exasperated. “Besides, you think I could have come this far if my friends and family _didn’t_ know who I was? Pepper and Happy and Rhodey… I’d be lost without them.” Peter still feels torn. Tony sighs. “Kid, keeping this secret… it’ll isolate you. There’ll be a whole part of your life – a pretty big part – that you’ll have to keep from your family.”

“You’re my family,” Peter says, then he blushes.

“So are May and Ben,” Tony says, and Peter turns even redder when the older man doesn’t refute his earlier statement, the unspoken implication that Tony thinks of Peter as family too. “Peter… did you think about how much you’ll have to hide from them in the long run? How long you’ll have to keep lying?”

Peter makes a deflated noise, like air whistling out of the balloon. “So I’ll have to tell them no matter what?”

“I think you should.” Tony pulls Peter into a half-hug. “If they love you, they’ll understand.” Tony pauses for a moment, then winces. “Or at least, Ben will. May might… need some time to adjust.”

Peter buries his face in his hands, lets out a muffled wail. “Kill me now.”

…

“ _Hello, this is the Parker residence,_ ” Ben Parker’s voice says. “ _Please, leave a message._ ”

“Ben.” Tony steps out of the Iron Man armor, licking the last of the lime-pistachio glaze from his lips. Morgan’s churros have gone soggy, the orange glaze melted. “And May, if you’re there. It’s me. Look, I just had a talk with Peter and he has something he wants to tell you both.” He stops, rewinds his own words again in his head, cringes. “Nothing bad.” He pauses again, then amends himself. “Nothing _too_ bad. Actually, I was pretty proud of him when I found out. I think you’d be too, Ben… I mean, May would probably be pissed and freaked out and worried…” He trails off and sighs. “And I’m making it all sound worse… The kid just wants you both to be proud of him,” Tony says. “He wants it pretty badly, Ben. And I know it’s not my place to tell you and May how to parent your own kid, but just… hear him out, okay?”

With a pleasant _ding_ , the elevator doors slide open and Natasha Romanoff steps out into the underground garage. The last vestiges of Tony’s good mood evaporate instantly.

Tony gives her a thin-lipped, unfriendly smile. “Gotta go, Ben. Need to clean house. There’s a bit of a pest problem, you know – spiders, sneaky, poisonous, leaves a mess of webs everywhere that you have to untangle… you know the type. Get back to me after Peter’s spoken to you.”

He taps his ear-pod and ends the voicemail, wishing he’s anywhere other than here. The problem with Natasha Romanoff is that he can never make up his mind about her; he doesn’t know whether the habit she has of switching sides as frequently as some people switch bedsheets is a sign of her tolerance and self-sacrifice to the cause, or her disloyalty and ideological spinelessness.

“What are you doing here, itty bitty spider?” Tony asks, giving her a look more frozen than a glacier.

Widow shifts on her feet, crosses her arms across her chest. Her posture isn’t confrontational, but something about the set of her jaw and the way she positions her shoulders makes Tony think about the unyieldingness of brick walls.

“We need to talk,” Widow says simply.

Tony eyes her frigidly. “Do we? Because I think we’ve said all we need to the last time we spoke.”

“If you can call it speaking.” Natasha scoffs, and Tony feels a rush of fondness towards the redhead, unexpected in its intensity and inconvenient in its timing. He’s forgotten how he used to simultaneously like and detest Natasha’s ability not to take any of his bullshit. “And you don’t really believe that,” Natasha states, surety in her voice. “Tony, the Avengers-”

Irritation edges out fondness.

“Let me just stop you right there,” Tony says sharply. “The Avengers and what they do are none of my business. They haven’t _been_ any of my business for the past two decades, and I’m perfectly happy to keep it that way.”

“We’re your friends.”

“Were.” Tony’s still smiling, but the expression turns colder and chillier. “Past tense. You _were_ my friends – before the lot of you took off, decided to become fugitives, left me to look after my crippled best friend alone, left us to deal with _Thanos-_ ” He stops himself before he can go too far, swallowing down the rancid taste in the back of his throat. He’s still pissed with the lot of them, God is he ever, but it doesn’t justify unfairly lashing out at someone who once straddled a line between _close colleague_ and _distant friend._ The smile has slipped from his face, replaced by a nasty glare. “If that’s your idea of how friendship works, then I suggest you revise your definition of the word, because _no thank you_. You can keep your friendships. I don’t want it. Don’t mistake my tolerance of you for Bruce’s sake to be anything else.”

Natasha shakes her head, patronizing and condescending, like Tony’s an unruly toddler throwing a tantrum, like he needs guidance, needs discipline. Just the sight of it makes Tony’s temper spike. He grits his teeth so hard his jaw starts to hurt. Natasha, no matter how close they once were, or how much they enjoyed each other’s company, always had a special talent of getting on Tony’s nerves, a talent only second to Rogers’ own inborn flair.

“I thought you’d changed,” Natasha spits out snidely. “I really did. But you haven’t changed at all, have you, Stark? For God’s sake, the world _ended_ and you’re still holding onto petty grudges? You still can’t see past the end of your own damn ego-”

“ _My_ ego? You honestly think this is about my _ego_?” Tony laughs, a wild and crazy kind of laughter that scares himself. Natasha’s eyes widen. “Do you think I was thinking about _my ego_ when I woke up in this time – in my _personal hell_ – and realized that all the people I ever loved, everyone I ever lost – that all of them were alive and living? Do you think I was thinking about _my ego_ when I made sure the fucking Winter Soldier – _my parents’ murderer_ – got out of HYDRA’s hands and into Shuri’s?”

“Tony-”

“It wasn’t _ego_ , Nat, it was pragmatism,” Tony presses on, feeling ruthless and cruel. “But I understand you’ve always had difficulty telling these two things apart, Natashalie. It wasn’t about anything other than the fact that _we didn’t need you_ – we didn’t need _any_ of you. We need Stark Industries and Wakanda and SHIELD – _but we didn’t need you_. It wasn’t about anything other than not giving you enough rope to hang yourself and all of us with you; not giving your enough information to muck this all up; not letting _Rogers_ go off half-cocked and leave another mess for me to clean up. The simple _fact_ of it is that telling you would have been more of a liability than an asset, so we _didn’t_.”

“Despite what you think, Tony, defeating Thanos isn’t all about building weapons of mass destruction,” Natasha snarls. After all this time and all their arguments, she still knows Tony well enough to hit him right in the chink of his armor with only a handful of words.

But that connection goes both ways, and Tony’s gut reaction to being cornered has always been to lash out, to go right for the throat (Fight or Flight). “Because the team was all that effective against Thanos the first time, right? Remind me again, what happened?” he asks brutally.

He sees her flinch before she can cover it up. For the first time, in _either_ life, he’s managed to genuinely hurt her, or maybe it’s the first time she’s _letting_ him see that he’s hurt her.

Tony’s anger drains away, replaced with shame. “I’m sorry,” he says, genuinely contrite. “That was out of line.”

Natasha’s face is chalky. Her voice is brittle with sadness. “You really hate us, don’t you?”

Tony wets his lips. “Hatred,” he says slowly. “Hatred is too strong of an emotion to waste on someone you don’t like.”

“Sixto Rodriguez.” Some color comes back to Nat’s cheeks. Her smile is weak and edged with drollness, but present. “Never took you for a fan of folk-rock.”

“You’re forgetting that Sixto Rodriguez also played psychedelic rock,” Tony reminds her. “And we both know how big of a fan I am of psychedelic culture.” They exchange conspiratorial grins, and for just a moment, they’re both ghosts from the past, but the moment passes and the grins die. Tony looks away first.

“Tony.” There’s a glint of desperation and wistfulness in Natasha’s eyes. “We miss you, and I _know_ you miss us.”

“I do miss you,” Tony admits bluntly. He can see Natasha looks taken aback by that easy admission. “Of course I do. The team used to be like a family to me, but we weren’t good for each other, Nat, we just weren’t. And I can’t afford to open my home to people like you again…” Natasha looks stricken. Tony looks away from her, at the Iron Man suits standing in the glass display cases – all of them still fully functional, coded to his, Pepper’s, Happy’s, and Rhodey’s body-prints – his worst-case scenario contingencies, accessible only to the people who stood by him when the Avengers didn’t. _That_ is what being a family means – it means you don’t leave anyone behind. “You didn’t listen,” he says softly. “None of you listened. I tried to warn you. I tried for _years_. I told the team that Loki and New York were only the beginning. I said that over and over again… and none of you believed me. You all thought I was exaggerating, that I wanted attention, that was I paranoid and crazy… and you. Didn’t. Listen.”

Natasha’s face is clammy with sweat. Her expression is as breakable as glass.

“Australia. Canada,” Tony says, and Natasha suddenly looks very, very afraid. “Japan. India. Croatia. Norway… and that was just the first wave… Thanos took out entire countries… my best suits couldn’t stop it…”

“Don’t.” Natasha’s voice is shaky.

“How many people died?” Tony’s smile is mirthless. “How many lives shattered and snuffed out? How much blood was spilled? How many children screamed and burned?” Morgan. Peter. Shuri. Lila. Cooper. Nathaniel. “Do you know? Because I do. I could tell you. Because when Pepper first told me she was pregnant with Morgan, I sat down and did the math.” Then he proceeded to get drunk out of his mind. Natasha mutely shakes her head. “4.7million children in Australia.” Natasha shakes her head again, this time pleadingly. Tony ignores her. “5.6million in Canada. 15.53million in Japan. And in India-”

“Stop,” Natasha chokes out, hoarsely. Her eyes are wide and glassy with horror.

“It’s not _hate_ I feel for you,” Tony explains, his tone not unkind. “It’s _blame_ … I mean, don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot of that going around. I blame Thanos most of all. I blame myself for not doing enough, it actually keeps me awake at night, you know, how much blame is on my shoulders, how much I don’t deserve any shred of the happiness that I have now… and I blame the team – you and Clint and even Bruce, Rogers most of all – because you didn’t _listen._ You just didn’t. You didn’t even _try_.”

Natasha looks like the ground has been yanked out from under her feet.

But Tony isn’t done. He’s not saying all this to hurt her. He doesn’t know why he’s saying any of this, but he’s been bottling all of it up for so long, letting it fester and rot inside him, that he just doesn’t think he can keep it in any longer.

“After the Accords, I started to have these… these little daydreams.” Tony straightens his cufflinks as an excuse not to look Nat in the eye. He doesn’t want to see the look in her eyes when he brings up the trigger that tore the team apart. God, they were all so _stupid_ , fighting over a piece of paper that became obsolete in two measly years after it was drafted. “You remember BARF, right? I spent hours in that machine… just reliving the worst parts of my life… seeing what would happen every time I made a different choice… trying, without much success, I might add, to erase my regrets: all the ways I could have stopped the Avengers from turning on each other, all the ways I could have persuaded them, all the different ways I should have handled Wanda and Ross and Barnes… so when I woke up in that cave in the past… that was exactly what I did – I erased my regrets.”

_I regretted the Avengers. I regretted our friendship. I regretted taking the team in my home and in my heart. I regretted giving them my trust and the power to destroy me._

_So I erased it. I erased all of it._

Natasha seems to know some of what he’s thinking. Her expression shutters, the vulnerability shining from her eyes neatly tucked back out of sight. This will be the last time Natasha will ever reach out to him, the last time she will ever attempt to bridge the gap between them, and Tony mourns a little at that, at the finality of it, the mutual understanding between them that there is no going back.

_What kind of reunion were you expecting, Tasha? How else did you expect me to react? I couldn’t afford to let any of you in again, to put my trust in the wrong kind of people and expect them not to stab me in the back. Obadiah Stane taught me that lesson – and Rogers made it stick._

“What about Steve?” Natasha asks.

“What about him?”

“He still thinks there’s a way to fix everything between you and the team, between you and him.”

“Not my problem.” Tony feels his lip curl in disdain. “If he wanted to fix things this badly, then maybe he shouldn’t have broken them in the first place.”

“The break happened on both sides.” Natasha seems to read something in his expression, something that makes her voice soften just slightly. “Steve made a mistake, Tony. I know he did. But it was _one_ mistake, and it was _years_ ago. Are you that determined to hate him for it forever?”

“Yes,” Tony says flatly.

Natasha’s jaw tightens. “He wasn’t the only one who lied to you, Tony. I knew about the Winter Soldier and your parents for just as long as he did, and you’re not half as angry at me as you ever were at him. Why?”

 _Because I never expected anything better from you,_ Tony thinks, immediately and uncharitably. _Because I always knew exactly what you were – the ultimate survivor. And being the ultimate survivor means being able to lie, to adapt, to hide, means always backing the biggest bully in the playground. We might have been friends once, Nat… I liked you, admired you, respected you… I was even attracted to you… but I never trusted you. I was never under any delusions about my position in your list of priorities if things with the team went south. I never expected you to give me your trust or your loyalty or even your **honesty**. And when I found out that you lied to me, that you were lying to me all along, I was angry, for sure I was… but not betrayed, or even surprised, because to betray someone, first you need their trust, and Nat, you never had mine._

_And you proved me right about you, in the end, didn’t you? I could have loved you like a sister, but **you proved me right**._

_I was wrong about Steve, though. God, he proved to be the best liar out of all of us, in the end. He had me **completely** fooled._

If Tony says all of that aloud, it would be nothing but the truth, but it would be an unkind truth, the kind meant to wound and injure. The tiniest part of him that still cares about Natasha, that still thinks of her as an old friend, doesn’t want to cause that hurt. It’s kinder to say nothing at all.

If it’s one thing Morgan and Peter have taught Tony these past ten years, it’s the value of kindness, even to people who haven’t earned it.

So instead of replying, he just shakes his head and walks away, but Natasha calls after him.

“He told you this time, Tony,” Natasha tells him. “You can’t forget that. This time, Steve got it right.”

Tony’s footsteps don’t falter. He doesn’t look back.

…

**2017**

The city of Sokovia – grey concrete city blocks, clusters of high-rises, labyrinthine roads snaking among the city structures, rolling green hills and mountains and parks. It’s filled with people – the citizens of Sokovia, living, working, sleeping, laughing, arguing.

Sokovia would be just any old city, if it weren’t also hovering several hundred feet above the Baltic Sea.

Mayor Marina Eva Antov, a poised older woman with black hair pinned back from her face in a large grey bun, is frowning contemplatively. “You want us to export _salt_?” she speaks with a heavily accented English.

A five-feet high guardrail has been erected all along the perimeter of the city. The duo stand there, gazing over the edge of the hovering island, down to the ocean five hundred feet below. The surface of the water is glittering and green, like a flat pane of glass. It’s sunrise, and the sky looks like a watercolor painting done in red and purple. The view is breathtaking.

Tony muffles a yawn, clutching a coffee cup in one hand. The caffeinated drink tastes like swill and still steams in the high-altitude air, so hot it burnt the roof of his mouth. He points to the coastal shores stretching out below them – acres of sleek and gleaming structures and turbines, corrosive-resistant water tanks, high pressure water pumps siphoning salt water from the ocean – to create enough drinking water to sustain everyone living in Sokovia… all of that powered by arc reactor technology, the same technology keeping Sokovia in the air right now.

“For every liter of drinking water Stark Industries’ desalination plants produce, we get 0.9 liter of waste brine – as if I haven’t got enough trouble from Greenpeace – and it’s just sitting there – so I thought, why not just sell it? All sorts of useful chemicals in brine, seems a waste to just pump it back into the ocean… so I tinkered, and voila – Stark Industries’ one and only, bleeding edge, nanofiltration process. Patent pending. I could put you in contact with a couple of interest buyers, give your country’s economy a bit pf padding. Besides, you’ll have your hands full soon… when the city’s repairs are done, you’ll have tourists pouring out of your ears.”

“The only flying city in the world,” Mayor Antov agrees, a proud glint in her eye.

“There’s the spirit!” Tony says cheerfully. “A cruise _city_ instead of a cruise ship. A few five-star hotels, a handful of resorts and casinos, a couple of megamalls… and you _definitely_ need to get better coffee.” He swirls the brown dregs at the bottom of his cup, wrinkling his nose. “-but do that and you’ll be booming!”

Major Antov smiles then, and it transforms her face, makes her look years younger and smoothing out the worry lines having accumulated onto an already crowded forehead since Ultron sent Sokovia flying and Tony started to work with her during the city reparations.

“Have you read the paper?” Mayor Antov asks, pulling out a rolled-up, slightly flattened, newspaper form the inside of her suit jacket.

“Today’s?”

“Yesterday’s.”

“I crashed the moment I arrived.” Tony shrugs apologetically. “Jet lag’s a bitch.” _Even when you’re flying in a high-tech bodysuit._

“Read it.” Mayor Antov hands the newspaper over to him. “Front page. You will not miss it.”

Tony takes the slightly squashed newspaper from her, unrolls it, takes one look at the author’s name and groans.

“Mr. Stark?”

“Abigail Burns.” Tony grumbles. “Abigail ‘Red Peril’ Burns. Journalist. British.” _Pain in my ass._

“Is that ‘journalist’ in quotation marks?”

“No, actually.”

“You don’t like her?”

“Whether or not I like her is irrelevant, because she hates me.”

“Well, the article is surprisingly complimentary coming from someone who supposedly hates you.” Mayor Antov nods at the newspaper. “Read it.”

Tony sighs, smooths out the paper.

The headline reads: **_Sokovia, The City of The Future_**

Tony’s gaze moves down the page, growing more and more baffled the longer he reads on.

_Factories turn out photo-sensitive sheets as building materials. They grow cabling like a plant. By being out in the sun, they generate power. It all means cheap, renewable energy, feeding into an auto-generative grid… These people won’t be running corporate distraction boxes with it, at least for a while, but it is **fundamental** infrastructure. That’s what the city is – a self-generative infrastructure machine. It’s about growth. If there’s to be slums, to be shantytowns – and there will be – they should be the best they could be._

_It grows like a fungus. A cancer. That sounds sinister, yeah?_

_In any developing city, that slow creep is always there. **This** city doesn’t hide it. In a perverse way, it’s honest. It’s like Lego for grown-ups. It’s a city that treats the poor like grown-ups. It says ‘make what you want – we’ll make it fit’._

_It’s reactive. It’s for surviving._

_It’s **resilient**_.

_It’s not perfect, but it’s **better**._

_I don’t trust Stark’s future plans, but in terms of making today better than yesterday… this isn’t bad. This is good, even._

At this point, Tony is spluttering too hard to continue reading. “ _Abigail Burns_ wrote _this_?”

Marina doesn’t laugh at him, but he can tell she wants to. They move away from the guardrail, and the conversation turns to other things: the last of Sokovia’s rebuilding finishing up after the disaster that was Ultron; the city’s new political status and the changes Marina has to deal with as mayor of a city not physically tethered to any one geographic region; Sokovia’s renegotiated trade terms with its neighbors; the weather-predictive artificial intelligence Tony christened as HELEN, already infinitely useful in outmaneuvering storms; and even the hot debate among Sokovians about changing the city’s name.”

“Right now, the council favors Troy,” Mayo Antov tells him.

“Does that mean instead of Sokovians, we’ll have to start calling you Trojans?”

“Well, we already have a HELEN,” Marina jokes.

Tony starts to respond, but the words die in his throat, because as he turns his head, he manages to look right at the reflection of a nearby shop window. He sees a broad-shouldered man, face hidden by a baseball cap, watching him.

He must get a really queer look on his face, because Mayor Antov grows concerned. “Mr. Stark?”

He doesn’t remember what excuse he gives. It’s like his mouth is moving of its own accord, and his ears feel stuffed with wax. He sees Marina nod, say a few muffled words in goodbye, then leave. He keeps on staring after the mayor’s retreating back, long after she’s disappeared into the crowd, so hard his eyes water, until he feels a presence move to stand beside him.

Tony has envisioned, in an abstract way, of what he’d say to Steve Rogers the next time he sees him. He imagined the fury, fantasized somewhat unrealistically about the feel of Rogers’ jaw colliding against his knuckles (though it would probably break his hand). He wanted Rogers to give him an explanation, an excuse, _something_.

But now that the moment is here, now that Steve Rogers stands right next to him, within touching distance, Tony feels… nothing.

Somewhere along the line, sometime after he started telling himself that he doesn’t care about Rogers, he started not caring for real.

No anger. No hurt. No betrayal. None of the whirlwind of conflicting emotions he felt when he was face-to-face with Natasha (hurt, compassion, nostalgia, anger, disdain).

He just feels _nothing_ – a soul-deep detachment and indifference that somehow makes his shoulders feel so much lighter, like he’s finally shrugged off a heavy burden he’s been carrying for decades, or like finally walking without weights tied to his legs after doing so for his whole life.

It’s liberating, gloriously, deliriously so – to feel _nothing at all_ for a man Tony was so sure he hated with every fiber of his being.

There’s a poster for a book festival tacked to a lamp posts, with colorful cotton-candy-esque clouds as the background – yellow and pink and green and blue and orange. The graphic design is so saccharine that just looking at it makes his teeth hurt, but Peter and Morgan would probably love it.

“If you wanted to speak to me,” Tony says, when it becomes clear Rogers has no intention of being the one to break the silence. “There are easier ways of getting my attention.”

A beat. He can feel Rogers studying the side of his head. “No, there isn’t.”

There’s a coffee shop on the other side of the road, the fancy kind with a counter manned by a coffee barista who draws white-foam pictures, lined with expensive espresso machines and too many flavor pumps to count. Dark, slanting, cursive words are printed onto the window surface:

_Opening Hours:_

_Weekdays – 7.30am to 10pm_

_Weekends – 8am to 11pm_

And underneath there’s a little cartoonish picture of a coffee cup with wavy lines for steam.

“Can we talk?” Rogers asks, an almost pleading lilt to his question.

“Depends,” Tony replies, quite apathetic about it all. “Will it get you to finally leave me alone?”

A woman in a black bra and a see-through white shirt walks past, carrying a stack of fliers, which she hands out to passersby. It’s a pamphlet for an open mic event sometime tomorrow night at the _Cup o’ Joe_.

“Why did you help save Bucky?” Rogers asks. “If you hated him that much, then why did you save him?”

Tony doesn’t bother to suppress his reaction. He gives Rogers an incredulous look, because _isn’t it obvious_?

Apparently not, because Rogers seems utterly clueless. The super-soldier almost looks as if he’s trying to make himself smaller and less threatening, shoulders hunched and head ducked.

Tony doesn’t bother to soften his words. “Because it was never Barnes I hated.”

Rogers flinches. Tony ought to feel vindicated or maybe even guilty, like he had with Natasha… but he feels is nothing.

The sight of two grown men standing unmoving in the middle of the street is attracting some odd looks, so Tony readjusts his hold on his empty coffee cup and sets off down the street. Rogers matches him stride for stride.

“I wanted… Tony, I didn’t mean… you have to know that I… Bucky didn’t…”

Tony levels him with a phlegmatic look. “Spit it out.”

“I’m sorry,” Rogers forces out, voice rough.

“That must have hurt,” Tony observes impassively.

“Tony, I _am_ sorry.”

“I don’t care,” Tony says dispassionately, suppressing an eye-roll. Truer words have never been spoken.

“You _should_ care.” Rogers swiftly moves so he’s standing in Tony’s path. Tony always crashes into him. “Tony, maybe I was right about the Accords, but I wasn’t right about keeping the truth about your parents from you. I knew it was wrong, and I did it anyway. _I’m sorry_.”

“I know,” Tony says, a bit bored now. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…_ God, that’s _tedious_. “Rogers, I don’t care.”

That’s evidently not the response Rogers is expecting, because he gapes at him. Tony waits for the other man to move out of his way, and when Rogers doesn’t, the dark-haired man sighs impatiently, sidesteps Rogers, and continues on his way. For a blessed moment, Tony thinks Rogers has finally taken the hint and decided to leave him alone.

No such luck. Rogers catches up with him in a few quick strides.

“Maybe you don’t care,” Rogers says, gathering steam once more. “But I still owe you an explanation.”

“Actually, I’m not all that fussed about it,” Tony says aloofly.

 _Too late. **Twenty years** too late. _Tony doesn’t want to hear or to _know_ anything other than what he already knows is the truth, which can be succinctly summed up in two words: _Rogers lied_. End of story. The end. Full stop. He’s not interested in hearing an explanation, or of understanding _why_.

“ _Damn it, Tony!_ ” Rogers shouts, and grabs him by the arm. “I’m _trying_ to _fix things_!”

Very deliberately, Tony looks at Rogers’ hand on his arm. Rogers hastily releases him. “Has it occurred to you-” Tony asks, slowly and detachedly. “That maybe I don’t _want_ you to fix things?”

“I would have done it differently,” Rogers says softly. “If I’d been given a second chance like you were, I’d have chosen to tell you, I’d have been honest about everything.”

“Would you now?” Tony says, distantly skeptical. “Got to be honest, I wouldn’t have put my money on that. I thought it’d be far more likely you’d make it so Siberia never happens, and Zemo never tells me the truth, and make sure that no one would ever find that damning piece of security footage – then you could go on lying to my faces for another couple of years, and I would have had absolutely no idea that I could never rely on your honesty… to be absolutely honest, Rogers, I kind of prefer it that your mess blew up in our faces like it did – it kind of feels like I dodged a bullet there.”

Rogers’ shoulders slump. He looks tired. “You don’t believe me.”

Tony laughs coldly. “Did you honestly expect me to?”

“I’m telling the truth!” Rogers insists, eyes flashing furiously.

Tony meets his eyes, uncowed and cool. “Would I know it if you weren’t?”

He’s crumpled the coffee cup in a fist. He chucks the ruined paper cup in the bin, wipes his coffee-stained fingers on a tissue, then chucks that away as well. A few feet down the street, a busker in red plaid strums a guitar and croons into a microphone, his guitar case open in front of him, containing a few wrinkled notes. Tony hands the busker a fifty.

“What do you want me to say, Tony?” Rogers sounds at a loss. “What can I do to fix this?”

Tony’s eyes itch from rising from bed so early. His fingers twitch, and they feel cold. He wants more coffee, wants to wrap his fingers around another steaming-hot cup.

“I didn’t mourn you,” Tony says unfeelingly. Rogers sucks in a sharp breath. Tony doesn’t bother to look at him. “When you died, I mean…” His words come across as unsympathetic and callous, but he’s not up to feigning any emotion or grief that he doesn’t feel. Besides, he’s speaking the truth. Maybe Rogers can take notes. “To be honest, I barely spared a thought to you – I didn’t even feel glad that you died… I just. Didn’t. Care.”

Rogers looks kinda like he’s been hit in the face with Thor’s hammer.

“You can’t fix this, Steve.” Tony tries his best to sound just a little kind, but his voice still comes out toneless. Pococurante. That’s a nice word – pococurante. Tony should use it more often. “And I know that because when I look at you…” He gives a little indifferent shrug. “I don’t care.”

Tony turns and leaves. This time, Rogers doesn’t follow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a short chapter, but the next bit is 3,000 words long and got relegated to Chapter 6. Just be patient! Good things come to those who wait!
> 
> Did I take down the eventual reconciliation tag?
> 
> No, I did not.
> 
> Give it another 20,000 words.
> 
> I know some of you will think that Steve got off easy, just as I know others will think Tony's is being too harsh. But there's a reason I put a no bashing tag - I can't write bashing. I just can't. If I binge-read Cap bashing stories right before writing I could probably manage it, but it tends to come off as out of character and makes me feel pretty shitty. So I try not to overdo it. Lemme know what you think.
> 
> Next chapter will be updated in 2 weeks, featuring Pepperony! Pepperony fluff! Pepperony angst! Irondad and spiderson! Morgan! And a bit of plot.
> 
> So much Pepperony!
> 
> Not gonna lie, I'm excited.


	6. Pepper, Peter, Morgan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own anything.
> 
> I know death is a very sensitive topic at this time, so those of you who are triggered by it, read the tags.
> 
> That said, anyone who's following this story closely should read the end notes.

“C’mon.” Tony leads his two girls by the hand. “Whoops! Watch your step. Madam Secretary, move those little feet.” Morgan’s hot pink boots clamber up the winding path.

“The ground sounds crunchy!” Morgan gives a little hop, sending dead leaves flying everywhere. She crouches down, feels the ground with one hand, and comes up with a handful of dry leaves. She looks adorable in her red-and-black checkered jacket. “Where are we?” she wonders.

“Ah-ah-ah! No peeking, little miss!” Tony says, when Morgan scratches at her leopard-eyes-blindfold.

“But it’s itchy!” Morgan sulks, pawing at the material.

“Invest in better quality blindfolds. Duly noted. Right on top of my to-do list,” Tony promises, swooping down to press a kiss to the top of his daughter’s head. Morgan stops scowling and giggles a little. “And you, Ms. Potts? No reviews for the management?”

Pepper’s head turns to face him. The angry orange owl eyes on her blindfold seem to glower at him balefully. “Tony, you know how I feel about your surprises.”

“You _like_ my surprises!” Tony says with mock hurt.

“Giant bunny,” Pepper says, very succinctly.

“Are you never going to let that one go?” Tony grouses. “You have to admit, I’ve improved a lot since then!”

“There’s been around a twelve percent of an improvement, yes,” Pepper says, tone droll.

“You’re never going to let that go as well, huh?” Tony sighs in a very put-upon manner. “Are you never going to make things easy for me? Just a little bit?”

Pepper laughs. As the date of Thanos’ invasion comes closer and closer the sound of her laughter has been scarce, so having Pepper being so genuinely joyful right now is good to hear. It’s worth all the troubles of the past three decades, Tony thinks, just to see Pepper smile like this.

“Are you two gonna kiss now?” Morgan pouts up at them.

Tony looks down ruefully at his daughter. “If there was such a thing as a course in moment-ruining at your school…”

“Cuz if you are,” Morgan goes on. “Can you do it now while I can’t see you?”

Pepper smirks. “Maybe later.” One elegantly manicured fingernail runs lightly down the fabric of the blindfold, and _oh_ , Tony thinks –

“Are you doing it?” Morgan whines. “Are you _done_?”

Pepper’s smirk widens. She knows exactly what she’s doing to him, the minx. Tony rolls his eyes, leads his girls a few more steps forward until they’re standing in the perfect position, moves to stand behind them with his hands on their shoulders.

“Okay,” he says. “You can take the blindfolds off now… and please, don’t spare my blushes.”

The property is on the edge of a lake, with a sprawling driveway that’s more wilderness than lawn. The cabin is a two-storey, built as big as Tony can get away with while still being able to call it a cabin, with guest rooms for when Happy, Rhodey, and the Parkers stay over. The air is cool and breezy, with thick leafy-green foliage providing plenty of shade from the sun. The backyard has the beginnings of a fenced-off garden, and a thick grove of fruit trees. The highway passes through a hundred meters away, hidden from sight by the lush and dense foliage, but it still feels as though they’re standing in the middle of nowhere.

“Ooh!” Morgan squeals.

Pepper’s mouth has fallen ajar. Her eyes have gone very round.

Tony nudges his daughter gently. “Why don’t you go explore a little?”

Morgan needs no other encouragement. She takes off at a sprint, little hot-pink boots kicking up sprays of leaves with every step, hollering with childish and innocent exhilaration. Pepper is still frozen in astonishment.

“Well, I thought… since you said no to the farm…” Tony begins, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “…and since you said you preferred lakes to beaches…”

“Oh, Tony.” Pepper’s green eyes are shining, her voice is hushed. “Is this _ours_?”

“No, of course not,” Tony says ironically. “This is someone _other_ billionaire’s dream cabin, and he’s letting three complete strangers come and gawk at it, just because.” Pepper smacks him on the arm. “Ow! Okay, no joking… I mean, do you want it to be _ours_?”

“It’s perfect.” Pepper smiles at him. She steps into his space, so close he can smell her breath, feel the heat of her body –

“Daddy! Mummy! Come look!” Morgan shrieks giddily.

_Oh no._

“And I almost forgot to mention-” Tony quickly says, before Morgan renders any further explanation moot and redundant by skipping back around the cabin, and trotting merrily at her heels is a four-legged animal with grey shaggy fur, a long neck, cute twitchy ears, and big brown eyes that bears more than a passing resemblance to Morgan herself.

In one second flat, Pepper goes from looking like she wants to kiss him to looking like she wants to do something unspeakable to him (and not in the fun way).

It’s a new record!

Tony takes a moment to appreciate the fact that through all of his sometimes outrageous, oftentimes preposterous, _always_ hare-brained shenanigans, Pepper has not once tried to kill him with her bare hands.

But that may change now. Right now.

“Mummy! Daddy! Look what I found!” Morgan squeals.

“Yes, we’re looking.” Tony takes a few strategic steps away until he’s out of arms’ reach of his wife. “We’re looking at your new friend. His name is Gerald, by the way, if he hasn’t already told you, or if you haven’t asked, which if it’s the latter – rude, Maguna. Didn’t you remember any manners your mother and me- I mean, didn’t you remember any manners that your mother taught you?”

“Is he ours?” Morgan asks, wide-eyed with wonder and hope. “Can we keep him?”

“Tony.” Pepper finally finds her tongue. She’s glaring daggers at him. “Tell me you didn’t get our daughter an alpaca as a pet.”

“Okay,” Tony says slowly. He shuffles on the spot like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar, hiding both hands behind his back. “I won’t tell you then.”

“ _Tony_ ,” Pepper says again.

“Well, we did tell Morgan she could have a pet when she got older and was responsible enough to take care of it,” Tony squeaks, thoroughly cowed. “She’s older now. Ergo, she gets a pet. It’s responsible parenting! We agreed to compromise as a family unit!”

“Morgan asked for a goldfish and you bought her a petting zoo animal!” Pepper says in chagrin. “That’s the _opposite_ of compromising, Tony!”

“It was an impulse buy!”

“I know! I know what you impulse buying looks like-”

“-can’t be worse than the time I tried to get you to buy out Dunkin Donuts-”

“-a petting zoo animal, Tony! This was why I vetoed a farm-”

“-love him if you give him a chance. Open your heart, Pep-”

“-that barnyard animal smell is going to get everywhere-”

“-rude, Pep. You’ll hurt Gerald’s feelings. Look at him, he’s making a sad face at you-”

“-better stay outdoors if he knows what’s good for him-”

“Mummy, please!” Morgan wheedles, hugging Pepper’s waist, looking up at him with big brown eyes. “Please can Gerald stay?” she says sweetly.

Even Gerald puts in his own two cents, making forlorn humming noises through his nose, his ears folding dolefully back against his head.

Against three pairs of soulful brown eyes, Pepper shuts her eyes as if she’s praying for patience.

“Fine. The alpaca can stay,” Pepper decides, and Morgan lets out a celebratory cheer. “ _If-_ ” Pepper continues severely, “-you and Dad take good care of him.”

“We will!” Morgan says, solemn and earnest. “Won’t we, Dad?”

“Pinky promise,” Tony affects a posh tone, presses a fist to his chest in a dignified and yet still pretentious manner, like he’s about to say the pledge of allegiance. Pepper purses her lips, unamused. “Not even a smile? Wow. Harsh. Tough crowd.”

“Try harder,” Pepper advises.

“I love you?” Tony says weakly.

Stony. Silence.

“You should up your game, Daddy,” Morgan says conspiratorially, in a way that reminds him unerringly of Happy.

“You’ve been talking to Uncle Happy again,” Tony admonishes. Morgan scowls back in a way that is, _yes_ , an unmistakably Happy-esque expression. “Honey?” Tony says in a soppy voice. “Would you like another skyscraper with your name on it?”

Is that a twitch at the corner of Pepper’s mouth? “Keep it up, Mr. Stark,” Pepper says.

“Goji berries.” Tony starts to wave his arms dramatically around. “An endless supply of goji berries.”

Pepper sighs. “You’re forgiven,” she says, _very_ grudgingly. The terse lines of her face soften. “Why did I marry you again?”

“For my rich inner life,” Tony says grandiosely.

“Don’t push it, Mr. Stark,” Pepper warns direly.

“ _Moi?_ Push?” Tony affects an indignant air. “I think you must be mixing me up with someone else, Ms. Potts.”

Pepper laughs and lets him put his arm around her. They kiss, chaste and close-mouthed. Tony’s body hums in contentment.

“Gross.” Morgan pulls a face at her parents. “Can we go inside now?”

“You know, most girls your age think it sweet when their parents kiss each other.” Tony tweaks his daughter on the nose. “Your friends don’t mind when _their_ parents kiss.”

“Kamala thinks you and Mum are sweet, but Riri told me she thinks you’re hot.” Morgan’s nose wrinkles. “It’s _gross_.”

Pepper laughs at the look of horror on her husband’s face. “It’s such a hardship, isn’t it?” Pepper croons, stroking Morgan’s long brown hair. “To have a hot dad.”

“ _Ew_! _Mum!_ ” Morgan says grumpily.

They make it across the cabin’s threshold without further discussion of Tony’s hotness in the eyes of Morgan’s elementary school friends, much to their mutual relief (and Pepper’s badly hidden hilarity).

Tony did a great job at decorating, if he says so himself. The wraparound porch and balconies have comfy lounge chairs and tables (perfect for Tony and Pepper to relax with lemonade, and for Morgan to do her coloring or homework), with thriving flower beds. The kitchen is compact and utilitarian without being cramped or cluttered, with high shelves holding all the glasses and plates and breakable objects well out of Morgan’s reach. The living room is all polished wood paneling, with floor-to-ceiling mottled windows, cozy sofas and carpets, an electric fireplace made of faux stone, and scented candles on every surface (they’re not troglodytes, but Tony knows Pepper finds the smell relaxing, and sometimes Morgan likes to make shapes with the soft wax).

While Morgan is upstairs, running around and exploring to her heart’s content, Tony brings Pepper’s attention to the framed pictures hanging on the wall. “Our greatest hits,” he says softly.

A silver frame etched with patterns of blue irises, a gold _2008_ at the bottom. It holds their wedding picture – Pepper with her long hair a reddish-gold in the sunshine, falling loose around her shoulders, a wide smile on her face. Her wedding dress is a sheer lace backless number, and she’s holding a glass of pink champagne float of disgusting guilt-free ice cream, some of it smeared across her lower lip. Tony is leaning over to kiss Pepper’s nose, which has turned bright red, the way it always does whenever she’s drunk. Pepper says it’s horrid and she looks like Rudolph, but Tony thinks it’s adorable.

The next frame has a pattern of yellow mimosas – _2009_. Tony, Happy, and Rhodey sitting in a row, each holding in their laps a watermelon which have been diapered with varying competencies (a truly mortifying game during Morgan’s baby shower). Pepper stands behind Tony, hands on his shoulders, her stomach rounded with pregnancy, her expression almost glowing with happiness.

 _2010_ – Tony, Pepper, Rhodey, and Happy crowded around a baby Morgan during her first birthday party. Morgan has on a fluffy pink tutu with a large silver bow in her hair. The birthday cake looks squashed, and little baby Morgan has pink icing all over her face and dripping from her tiny chubby fists.

 _2011, 2012, 2013…_ frame after frame after frame, snapshots of the happiest moments of the year. The figures in the photos are joined by Peter, May, and Ben. The photos show Peter and Morgan growing up – Peter’s limbs turning lanky and awkward, Morgan starting to run around energetically.

Tony is grinning, gesturing to something on the mantlepiece. “And guess what’s in the place of honor?”

Only two things sit on the mantlepiece: the first is a lucky bamboo plant in a glass vase, its stem curling like a crazy straw (Tony always thought the plant’s a bit freaky, but it’s a Teacher’s Day present from Peter, and he can’t bear to throw it away); the second is a seemingly unremarkable piece of Kintsugi pottery, rose-gold cracks gleaming on its surface.

Pepper takes one look at the Kintsugi bowl and groans. “Really, Tony?”

Tony is laughing. “Hey, you can’t argue against the fact that it was plenty memorable!”

Pepper blushes. “It was an accident!”

Tony peers into the bowl. “I think I can still see the pieces here they dug out of my skull.”

“That’s disgusting!”

“Don’t worry. I had them clean out all the blood. Come on and see!”

“I wasn’t aiming for you!”

“Well, you were aiming for _something_!”

“It hit the wall, didn’t it?”

“Because I _ducked_ , and I still had some broken pieces lodged into the back of my head.”

Pepper is spluttering. “I was pregnant and hormonal!”

“I had to get stitches!”

“You big baby.”

They’re both laughing, red-faced with mirth.

“This is our happily ever after,” Tony says, draws Pepper close until they’re nose-to-nose. “Face it, Pep, if anyone deserves a fairy tale ending, it’s us. We’ve earned the right to fuck off away from civilization and live as culchies-”

He can feel Pepper’s wicked smile against his lips. “You know, that word only really works if you say it with an Irish accent.”

“Rubbish,” Tony says, with pretentiously disdainful affectation. “I’m Tony Stark, I can make anything work.”

“If you say so, Mr. Stark.”

“I do say so, Ms. Potts.” Tony’s hand presses against Pepper’s lower back. Her long red hair smells like rose and mountain laurel. She feels deceptively fragile, when actually she’s the strongest person he’s ever known. “But after Thanos.” He feels Pepper tenses up, smooths a comforting hand down her spine. “After we win,” he says, soft determination in his voice. “We can _live_.” He points to the empty picture frames hanging on the walls, waiting to be filled: _2018, 2019, 2020…_ He feels Pepper’s head turn as she looks at the empty frames as well. “We can have the rest of our lives to live. Another one, two, three decades worth of happy memories. Maybe even a couple of siblings for Morgan.”

“Hey.” Pepper pinches his side, but her voice is teasing. “Don’t push your luck, Mr. Stark.”

“You’re right. What was I thinking?” Tony widens his eyes guilelessly, rubbing the back of his head. “I mean, we wouldn’t want a repeat incident of last time.”

Laughing, Pepper shoves her husband playfully away. “Giant bunny,” Pepper quips.

“Five stitches,” Tony counters glibly.

“You suck.”

“Hey, you’re the one who married me.” Tony reels his wife back into his arms, kisses her greedily. “I guess there’s no accounting for taste,” he murmurs against her skin.

Pepper surges into the kiss, nips lightly at his lower lip, then pulls away, grinning impishly. “That’s quite a pitch, Mr. Stark.”

“I strive to impress, Ms. Potts.”

He leans in again, but Pepper presses a finger over his mouth, and he licks it playfully. “I just have one question.”

“Yeah, Pep?”

Pepper looks around again. “Who helped you with the décor?”

“…JARVIS,” Tony admits sullenly.

“Remind me to thank him.” Laughing, Pepper moves to kiss the black look off her husband’s face. “You know, for someone who’s pretty terrible at the small details, you’re excellent at the big gestures.”

“I know my strengths.” Tony curves his arms around his wife’s waist. He feels Pepper’s nose, cold and ticklish, in the crook of his throat. “Besides, I wanted everything to be perfect. Couldn’t risk you turning me down, you understand.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I wouldn’t really know what to do with my life if I didn’t have your…” Tony wracks his brain. “…organizational skills.”

He feels Pepper smile against his throat, the hardness of her teeth dangerously close to his jugular. “You walk among fire pits, Mr. Stark.”

They kiss again. Everything turns into a haze of pleasure and sensation.

“This is nice,” Tony hums dreamily. “This is good. You know, I kinda deserve a reward for putting in all this hard work.”

“Oh, do you now?”

“Crossed all my T’s. Dotted all my I’s. Did a lot of extracurricular reading, and by the way, you would not believe how much material there is on the internet about DIY gardening. Go on – ask me what’s new with composting?”

“What’s new with composting?” Pepper asks. Instead of answering, Tony grins impishly and kisses her again.

“Gross!” Morgan squeals, clamping her hands over her eyes as she comes to a dead stop at the foot of the stairs.

Tony groans, leans his forehead against Pepper’s. “I swear, she gets more troublesome the bigger she grows.”

Pepper’s eyes are dancing with silent laughter. “Talk like that won’t help you. You were there when we made her.”

“My kingdom for a babysitter,” Tony mumbles.

“Is that me?” Morgan demands, looking huffy. She’s looking at the photo of _2010_ , neck craned back. “I look stupid,” she declares.

“You look lovely, sweetheart,” Pepper assures their daughter, smoothing a hand through her long brown hair. “Your Dad picked it out, you know. These are some of his happiest memories.”

Morgan looks thoughtful then, large dark eyes scanning the rest of the photos, then pouting and looking up at her father with big soulful brown eyes. “But Daddy, you said that when I was born you felt the happiest _ever_!”

“I _did_ feel the happiest ever,” Tony agrees seriously, bending down to scoop Morgan up into his arms, even though his hip and spine twinge as he does it. It won’t be long now before he gets too old to do this, or before Morgan decides she’s too old to be carried around by her Dad. His daughter squirms in his hold, but doesn’t demand to be put down the way he’s half-expecting her to. “But I couldn’t show the picture of that. Do you know why?”

Morgan cuddles close to him. “Why?”

“Because all newborn babies are ugly,” Tony says, poker-faced.

Morgan gasps. “They are not!”

“They are,” Tony affirms. “Oh, after a few months they turn all cute and chubby with that new baby smell… but when they’re first born, they’re ugly – like if you put purple playdough into an oven, that’s what all newborn baby look like when they first come out of their Mums.” He pokes his daughter in the belly. “It’s what _you_ looked like when you first came out of your Mum – like a lump of overbaked purple playdough.”

“That’s mean!” Morgan’s lower lip wobbles.

“Mean, am I?” Tony mock-glares. “Well, as a mean Daddy, I suppose I need to prove my meanness by…” He trails off speculatively. “…by throwing you into the lake!”

Morgan shrieks with laughter as her father carries her out of the cabin, all the while playfully threatening to throw her off the docks.

…

_“Sir, satellites in the western hemisphere detecting incoming ships.”_

_“How many?”_

_“At least a thousand starships.”_

_“At least?”_

_“Too many readings to tell for sure, sir.”_

_“How fast?”_

_“Very fast.”_

_“JARVIS, prep the sphere. FRIDAY, get the net into position. And PEPPER? Put me on the line to Wakanda and SHIELD.”_

_…_

**2018**

The meeting room is spacious, but bare and utilitarian. The right wall is made entirely of glass, giving them a sweeping view of Wakanda’s spiraling city towers, cradled on all sides by jungle. The early dawn air is misty and shot through with sunlight, reflecting off the smooth surface of the ocean, which sparkles like fabric woven with diamonds and starlight. Fury, T’Challa, and Tony stand at the head of the table. It’s the first time they’ve all gathered in one place since Tony dropped the ‘I time-travelled back from a post-apocalyptic future wherein all of you are dead’ bomb, and tensions are high.

“All flights have been grounded,” Maria Hill reports, her face projected onto the holo-screen. “All airports shut down. The UN has made an announcement, urging everyone to stay indoors. SHIELD and the Helicarrier are on standby.”

“Keep me posted, Agent Hill,” Fury says tersely.

“Director.” Hill’s holo-screen flickers out.

“Boss, bogeys coming in hot,” FRIDAY chirps. “Passing the moon. Approaching the Earth’s exosphere.”

Ayo sets a kimoyo bead on the conference table. The bead projects a 3D hologram of the Earth, and a formation of glowing dots advancing on the planet, like a hostile swarm of fireflies invading an atlas.

Pietro is so nervous he’s letting his super-speed run amok, zooming from one end of the conference hall to the other. Looking at him gives Tony a headache. Pietro almost appears to be glitching out. “So are you guys going to fill us in on the plan now?” Pietro asks, jumping from foot to foot so fast that his legs go blurry. “I mean, you do have a plan, right?” He zooms forward to look right into Tony’s face, so close the older man takes a startled step back. “I mean, we all assumed you had a plan.” Pietro zooms away to stand next to his sister. “It would be pretty terrible if you didn’t and we all died, so uh, please have a plan.” The fireflies inch ever close to the atlas. Pietro zooms over to press his face against the window. Tony blinks, and a moment later Pietro is standing at his sister’s side again, a pair of sticky handprints on the glass. The Dora Milaje give him a twitchy look. Pietro either doesn’t notice, or he’s gotten very good at ignoring these kinds of looks. “Unless your plan is for us to all stand here and watch their ships smash right into the planet,” Pietro goes on. He zooms into a chair, making the legs buckle, and puts his feet up on the table. “That’s not your plan, right?” he asks inanely.

“Get your feet out of my face, Pietro,” Wanda says.

“They’re not in your face. They’re on the table.”

“Get’s what on the table our of my face then,” Wanda tells him, shoving at his ankles.

“You know, I’m twelve minutes older than you,” Pietro huffs. “Seriously, though, what’s the plan?”

“Just watch.” T’Challa crosses his arms over his chest, sounding cryptic.

Just then, a row of starships wink out of existence, then another, and another.

“Whoa.” Peter leans in for a better look, the white eye-shapes of his mask widening. “What happened to them?”

“This happened to them.” T’Challa puts down two more kimoyo beads. “Compliments from Stark and Shuri.”

Shuri rubs her palms together with flagrant gaiety. “We call it… the Dyson Sphere.”

Tony frowns at her. “I thought we agreed on Sol’s Hammer?”

Shuri scoffs. “Sounds pretentious.”

“We built a machine that can capture and control the power of our local sun.” Tony nods at the 3D model of a honeycomb-patterned machine orbiting over the flaming surface of the celestial object in question. “I think we’re entitled to a bit of pretentiousness.”

“You two _weaponized a star_?” Rogers asks, sounding predictably moralistic and disapproving.

“I always had a taste for the exotic,” Tony retorts, cold and sarcastic.

“I’m still surprised you didn’t call it the _Stark Sphere_ ,” Rhodey says humorously.

“I wanted to,” Tony admits. “But apparently the company is already using that for something else. I’ve got to get better marketing people.” He adds the last part in a grumble.

“You mean _Pepper_ has to get better marketing people. Not your company anymore, Tones,” Rhodey says. He’s trying to put on a brave front, but Tony knows his Rhodey-bear too well to be fooled that easily. Rhodey’s eyes are deep and dark like wells of fear. They’re all fearful.

Another half a dozen glowing starships wink out on the hologram.

Tony points to the second model, pieces of what look like interlocking Tetris blocks floating around in the planet’s exosphere, appearing for all intents and purposes like harmless space junk.

They’re _not_ harmless space junk.

“Officially, these are the twenty orbiting satellites launched by Stark Telecom,” Tony tells them. “Unofficially, they’re part of an experimental thermal net – superweapon capable of channeling the power of the Earth into a concentrated NiFe discharge-”

“Niffler what?” Clint asks blankly.

“See, Clint? This is what happens when you drop out of school to join the circus,” Natasha says, in a completely unironic tone. She turns to Peter. “Let this be a lesson to you, kid. If you study hard enough and constantly work to better yourself, you too, can become so smart no one else will understand you.”

“If you laugh, I will disown you,” Tony warns Peter, completely deadpan.

Peter makes a half-strangled, choking sound, like a cat with a hairball lodged in its throat, and claps both hands over the place where his mask covers his mouth.

“Was that a laugh?” Tony asks dourly.

“N-no, Tony!” Peter squeaks. “Of course not! Spider solidarity means absolutely nothing against the strength of the filial devotion and loyalty I feel for you!”

“ _Filial_ devotion and loyalty?” Wilson parrots. “Stark, this is your kid?”

“Say nothing,” Tony tells Peter, then turns back to Wilson. “And you can keep your nosy beak out of my family business, birdbrains.”

“If you all are _quite done,_ ” Stephen Strange unceremoniously interrupts them, his red cape making a loud snapping motion to get their attention. “And as _riveting_ as this conversation is, can we put a stop to the triviality and concentrate on the alien troops right on our doorstep?”

“Some of them are peeling off.”

Tony jumps. The Winter Soldier has been still and quiet the entire time, almost as if he’s (and he probably is) trying not to draw attention to himself. But now Barnes is leaning forward, pointing to a section of the hologram, where a cluster of blinking dots have branched off from the main fleet.

“FRIDAY, show me where they’re heading?” Tony says.

The hologram zooms out as FRIDAY plots a path. Everyone turns grim.

“They’re heading for the sun,” Vision says, remarkably calmly.

Bruce turns to Tony. “How much time would it take for the thermal vent to finish off Thanos’s army?”

Tony closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Shuri?”

“Longer than the time it would take them to switch off our sun,” Shuri says bleakly.

“How does someone switch off a sun?” Pietro asks.

“You blow it up,” Shuri tells him.

“Oh.” Pietro’s literally vibrating in his seat, is outline blurring. “That is… not good, yes?”

“No, it is not,” Shuri agrees with equanimity.

Rogers squares his jaw. “That’s not an option.”

“Can we stop them?” Wong asks.

“Not without losing the Dyson Shield.” Shuri shakes her head adamantly. “And that’s the only thing keeping the invading troops from decimating the planet.”

“We need a distraction,” Tony decides. “The Dyson Shield…” He trails off speculatively, before meeting Shuri’s eyes. “We can’t drop it completely… but if we only open a section of it-”

“You want to let those things in?” Shuri gives him an aghast look.

“Stark, are you insane?” Clint snarls. He’s echoed with the others’ cries of horror.

“We need to give Thanos a bigger target than the Dyson Sphere,” Tony insists vehemently. “Look, I’m not talking out of my ass here. Think of it as a bigger scale of explosive avalanche control, but it’s the same principle… you artificially trigger a smaller avalanche to prevent larger, more destructive ones. You do it with ski-cutting.”

“But Thanos would know it’s a diversion,” T’Challa points out.

“Brother!” Shuri looks at her brother wildly. “Please tell me you are not seriously considering this!”

T’Challa levels his sister with a kingly look. “We either keep the Dyson Shield up and wait for Thanos to come for us… or we do what Stark is suggesting, and buy ourselves some time. We have to hold out long enough for the thermal net to do its job. It’s already considerably thinned out Thanos’s army.”

“His Highness is right, though.” Fury’s scarring is thrown in sharp relief as he adjusts his eyepatch. “That wrinkly purple dickhead isn’t a moron. He’ll see us coming… you’re going to need a really good bait to get him to bite.”

Fury looks pointedly at Stephen Strange.

It takes a moment for Tony to understand what he means. “What? Fury- no! Absolutely not!”

“Stark-”

“The entire point of this-” Tony hisses fiercely. “Is to keep the Infinity Stones _out_ of Thanos’s hands! Not gift-wrap and deliver them right to his doorstep!”

“No, Director Fury’s right,” Dr. Strange says, and Tony throws his arms up in despair. “Thanos won’t come to us for anything less than an Infinity Stone.” He meets Fury’s gaze darkly. “So we give him one.”

“You’re all crazy,” Barnes states in a very matter-of-fact tone. “And this plan is terrible.”

“Well, we’re open to ideas,” Fury says drolly. “You have anything better to suggest, Sargent Barnes?”

“No.” Barnes sighs dully. “It’s a terrible plan, but it’s also our best plan.”

“What a glowing endorsement,” Pietro says acerbically.

“Carol?” Rhodey looks at Fury, who shakes his head mutely. “And Thor? Any word from him? Or Asgard?”

“Radio silence.” Fury’s single eye turns flinty. “At this point, we’ll have to assume the worst.”

Vision rises soundlessly to his feet. “I should go with you.”

“Viz-” Wanda reaches to touch him, looking torn.

“No, Wanda.” Vision touches her cheek gently. “I can do the most good if I go with them.”

“Or the most bad,” Wilson mutters.

“Yeah, that’s great,” Rhodey says satirically. “Sounds like a brilliant plan. Dangling two Infinity Stones in Thanos’s face instead of one.”

“There’s an old human saying, Vision,” Natasha says leerily. “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.”

“If the Dyson Shield falls, Wakanda and its warriors will be the Earth’s last line of defense,” T’Challa says with profundity. “You need to stay in our protection, Vision, in the event-” The Prince of Wakanda falters.

“In the event that we fail,” Dr. Strange finishes. T’Challa nods.

Strange and Wong rise to their feet.

“Banner?” Tony pushes back his chair, moves to join the wizards. “You want a piece?”

Bruce looks sullen. “No, not really. But when do I ever get what I want?”

“That’s the spirit,” Tony agrees amiably.

An orange spinning portal whirls into existence, sending brightly colored sparks flying everywhere. Tony catches one of the glowing orange motes on one fingertip. The patch of skin where it lands tingles, but he doesn’t spontaneously combust or burst into song or anything, so he decides it’s probably relatively safe.

He still hates magic though.

“I’ll see you soon, Tones.” Rhodey grips his arm hard.

Tony smiles weakly. “Not if I see you first.”

“Standard promise?”

“Standard promise.”

“Take care, Bruce.” Natasha waves awkwardly.

“You too, Nat.”

“Try not to get killed, alright?” Clint’s voice is gruff, but he looks at Bruce and even Tony with genuine worry behind his eyes.

“I’ll put it on my to-do list,” Tony quips. Clint rolls his eyes.

The four men step through the portal just as a commotion kicks up behind them in the conference room. Tony turns back to look, but he’s bowled over from behind as a heavy weight slams into his back. They fall through the whirling orange portal and Tony finds himself sprawled undignifiedly on his front, with a mouthful of dirt. He spits the dirt out, rolls onto his back, and sees, to his horror, something that makes the entire situation even worse. Because bouncing to his feet and dusting himself off a few feet away is Spiderman.

The whirling orange portal is gone. Strange has brought them to a deserted and overgrown stretch of countryside, verdant and green and other back-to-nature shit.

“Yeah, uh, you know how we were just speaking of filial devotion and loyalty-” Peter raises both hands in a gesture of surrender. Tony finds himself temporarily speechless “I know what you’re gonna say,” Peter says.

Tony’s face grows stormy. “You should not be here.”

Peter’s hands flail around as he speaks. It should not seem as endearing as it does, especially not in these circumstances. “I was gonna stay in Wakanda,” Peter says. “You know, do my part, protect Vision, and all-”

“I don’t wanna hear it.”

“But it all went by so fast and then you and Bruce were going with the wizards and Dr. Strange opened the portal and no one was looking at me-”

Tony grinds his teeth together. “And now I gotta hear it.”

“And this suit is ridiculously intuitive, by the way.” Peter gestures to his Iron Spider suit. “So if anything, it’s kinda your fault that I’m here.”

“What did you just say?” Tony asks, affronted.

“I take that back,” Peter stammers. “And now I’m on your team!”

“Yeah, right where I didn’t want you to be!” Tony lowers his voice, resisting the urge to grab Peter by the shoulders and _shake_. “This isn’t Coney Island. This isn’t a field-trip. This could be a one-way ticket. You hear me? Don’t pretend like you thought this through. You could not have possibly thought this through. Strange, open the portal again! Send him back-”

“No. I did think this through-”

“-I _know_ you didn’t think this through! Strange, I told you to open the portal-”

“It’s just…” Peter is visibly struggling for words. “You can’t be a friendly neighborhood Spiderman if there’s no neighborhood.” There’s a moment of silence where Peter stares at Tony, who’s silently dismayed. “Okay, that didn’t really make sense, but you know what I’m trying to say.”

Bruce is wringing his hands, looking between Tony and Peter like he’s watching a tennis match. The wizards just look bored, though Strange’s cape seems to be peeking at them over its master’s shoulders.

Tony makes a whistling, hissing noise through his nose, like steam pouring out of a boiling kettle.

But in the end, Peter stays.

…

“ _Get lost, Squidward!”_

_“Your powers are inconsequential compared to mine.”_

_“Yeah, but the kid’s seen more movies.”_

_“If it comes to saving you or the kid or the Time Stone… I will not hesitate to let either of you die. I can’t, because the fate of the universe depends on it.”_

_“Alright, kid, you’re an Avenger now.”_

_“Let me just say, if aliens wind up implanting eggs in my chest or something, and I eat one of you, I’m sorry.”_

_“I don’t wanna hear another single pop culture reference out of you for the rest of the trip.”_

_“I went forward in time to view alternate futures. To see all the possible outcomes of the coming conflict.”_

_“How many did you see?”_

_“14,000,605.”_

_“How many did we win?”_

_“One.”_

_“Stark.”_

_“You know me?”_

_“I do. You’re not the only one cursed with knowledge.”_

_“My only curse is you.”_

_“All that for a drop of blood.”_

_“Spare his life and I will give you the Stone.”_

_“Why would you do that?”_

_“Tony… there was no other way.”_

_“I don’t wanna go, Tony, please, please, I don’t wanna go.”_

_…_

The kid falls apart in Tony’s arms.

Tony tries to hold onto him, tries to hold him together. The cold metal of Peter’s suit digs painfully into the inflamed edges of Tony’s barely sealed wound, but that only makes Tony hold on tighter. Peter is gripping him back so hard he’s leaving bruises on the older man’s shoulders. Peter, young and crying, trembling and scared, doing what he always does whenever he’s crying and trembling and scared – he turns to Tony for help.

Tony remembers Peter at eight, crying over his Uncle Ben, how he took Tony’s hand and believed him when the older man said _hang on there, kid. We’ll save your Uncle Ben, don’t worry –_ the way Peter trusted him instantly, the way he never doubted Tony would do what he promised, never even considered that the other man would fail. The look in little eight-year-old Peter Parker’s eyes, big and brown like a baby deer’s, so full of trust and faith – the kind of trust and faith children have in their parents, before they grow up and learn that Moms and Dads try their best, but they’re still fallible, sometimes they’re still disappointments, sometimes they make mistakes.

“I’m sorry,” Peter says.

_Kid, what the hell are you sorry for?_

Peter is young and crying, trembling and scared, waiting for Tony to figure out a way to save him, for Tony to come up with another miracle – until he isn’t. He isn’t young or crying. He isn’t trembling or scared. He’s not waiting for Tony to come to the rescue. He’s just gone. He’s nothing. He is ash and dust. He is slipping through Tony’s grasping, greedy fingers, blowing away in the wind.

 _No, this isn’t right._ He thinks. _I was supposed to save you, kid. I was supposed to stop this._

_Kid?_

_Pete?_

Tony thinks that Peter maybe hasn’t ever grown out of that phase of his childhood, never stopped seeing Tony as someone infallible, never took off his child-sized rose-colored glasses, never stopped seeing him as a hero, never realized that sometimes parents try their best but fail anyway.

Ash. Ash in the air. In his nose. Underneath his nails. Caked on his skin. Ground into the wrinkles of his palms. Settling on his hair and his clothes. Clinging to every surface.

He can taste it on his tongue.

“He did it,” Nebula says.

_Kid?_

He presses his bloodied palm against the soil of Titan, still warm where Peter was lying down only a moment ago.

 _How can he be gone?_ He wonders, childishly, naively. Not sad, not yet, but still confused, like a little boy accidentally dropping his ice-cream and is now scouring for it on the floor because he still thinks he can scoop the treat up and go on eating. The five second rule! _He was here just a second ago. He was alive just a second ago. I didn’t take my eyes off him. I held on. I didn’t let go. I held on. I didn’t. I held on. I didn’t._

_Did I?_

_Kid?_

_This isn’t funny._

_Kid, where are you?_

“Kid?” his voice breaks. He tastes ash and blood in his mouth. He’s sure he has some kind of chest wound. He claws at his chest, but the only serious injury he has is the stab-wound in his stomach.

The skin over his chest is smooth and unbroken, bruised but not badly so. It doesn’t feel like he has any broken ribs. He wonders if he’s experiencing a heart attack, but when he feels the pulse at his wrist, his heartbeat is smooth and steady.

But then why does his chest hurt?

Peter isn’t answering him.

“Kid?” he tries again.

He doesn’t get an answer. He doesn’t try another time. Because he knows that he’ll never get an answer. Tony has never needed to call Peter twice. Peter is always – has always been, eager for Tony’s attention and praise, starved for his love. He’s always coming when Tony calls. And he knows that the only reason that Peter isn’t here now, isn’t calling back for him, when Tony is asking for Peter as if his life depends on it, is because –

Because he can’t.

Because Peter is dead.

This isn’t a trick of Thanos.

Peter is dead.

_He’s gone._

_They’re both gone._

He doesn’t even realize he has that particular knowledge until the thought crosses his mind.

_Oh._

_Both of them._

_I’ve lost both._

It’s like two warm lights have gone out inside his mind.

This is why his chest hurts, not because something’s _broken_ , but because something’s _missing_.

_Pep. Kid._

There’s a Pepper-shaped hole in his chest, an absence that tastes of red hair and green eyes and freckles, a body intertwined with his in bed, shirtdresses and sock-clad feet during family game nights, peppermint tea on Sunday mornings, pregnancy-induced cravings for reindeer sausages, a secret guilty penchant for Mango Crème Girl Scout cookies, how she loved to take pictures of sunsets and sunrises.

_I wished we never came back, Pep. I wished we stayed in that ruined future together._

_At least we were together. At least you were alive._

He yanks back his left sleeve, looks down, and yep.

_PROOF THAT TONY STARK HAS A HEART_

His soul-mark is grey.

The first time he saw those words, carved into the spare reactor Pepper put in a glass box and left in his lab, he thought _Her. I want **her**._

He knew then.

Thanos talked about mercy. Tony remembers. He talked about balance, about peace. And for the first time, Tony understands how the purple titan can equate peace and mercy with death.

 _I want that_ , he thinks. _I want peace. I want mercy._

The soil where Peter laid is cool. Tony withdraws his hand, examining his palm clinically. The dirt has intermingled with the blood and ash on his skin. There’s only a small part of Peter on his skin. The rest of the kid has been blown away, weightless, unburdened, never to be seen again.

 _Take me with you,_ he thinks, _please._

_Pep? Kid?_

_I want to come with you._

He sits and waits, looks expectantly at his own limbs. He waits to be reduced to nothingness, waits to be thoughtless, weightless, non-existent, unreal.

“Get up,” Nebula tells him.

“No,” he says.

“Get up!” Nebula yanks at his arm. He makes himself go boneless, slumps onto the filthy earth.

He realizes that he’s crying. He doesn’t know why. There’s nothing to cry about. He’s going to be with Pepper and Peter in a moment. All he has to do is wait. When he’s ash, he won’t feel like crying anymore, he won’t be able to cry anymore. He hates himself for crying, but he hates himself so much that it only makes him cry harder.

Nebula looms over him, expression inscrutable. He doesn’t know whether the reason it’s so hard to tell what she’s feeling is because she’s blue, or because she’s a robot. Does Nebula even _have_ feelings? Is she like a blue, female Spock? Are her species Vulcans? Are Vulcans real?

“You can go,” he tells her. “But I want to wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“For until it’s time for me to go with them.” He raises his ash coated, blood-and-dirt smeared palms. “They’re waiting for me.”

A beat of silence.

“The boy,” Nebula says. “Was he your son?”

 _I should have told him how much he meant to me,_ he thinks. _I should have at least said it, just once._

_At least I got to hug him this time. I never got to hug him the last time. I never got to say goodbye at all._

“Do you have anyone else?” Nebula asks. “I understand that you’re old, for a human. You must have other offspring.”

His entire body seizes up for a moment because –

 _I forgot_ , he thinks, _I forgot about Morgan, Maguna, my little girl._

It’s like Nebula’s words have kicked the floodgates open in his head.

_Rhodey._

_Happy._

_I can’t lose anyone else. I can’t. I won’t survive it._

_If they’re all dead –_

But they’re not, he knows, he has to believe that. There are two holes in his heart the shape of Peter and Pepper, but _only_ two holes.

 _I would know,_ he thinks, _if they were gone, I would feel it and I would **know**._

He opens his eyes (when has he closed them?). Nebula is sitting cross-legged by his side. He feels cold. The tears on his cheeks have dried. The bloody scrape on the side of his head has clotted over. The sun is still in the same position, but he doesn’t know how this planet works. Titan might have constant daylight, for all he knows.

He opens his mouth, draws in a breath, which hurts like knives stabbing all down his windpipe.

“Morgan,” he says. He tastes blood in the back of his throat. “My daughter’s name is Morgan.”

_My daughter. Morgan._

The mantra loops itself over and over again inside his brain.

_I have a daughter. Her name is Morgan._

_Morgan Happy Stark._

Nebula nods. “Don’t you want to see her again?”

_Morgan._

He manages a nod, and Nebula helps him sits up, though the effort makes him feel faint.

_Rhodey._

Nebula pulls him to his feet, his stomach wound making him lean heavily on her.

_Happy._

He takes an experimental first step.

_Morgan._

A second.

_Rhodey._

A third.

_Happy._

…

“Is this thing on?”

Tony taps the cheek of his busted helmet. The eyes of the helmet light up weakly and scans him. He wishes he had the foresight to clean up a little so Morgan wouldn’t see him looking like suck a wreck. His own reflection scares himself, never mind Morgan. His arms are scarecrow-thin with malnutrition. The infection from his stab wound coupled with the lack of sun has turned his skin a pasty and unhealthy pallor as pale as milk, or maybe blancmange, as wrinkly and as yellow as onionskin – it’s kinda disgusting. The air is hot and sticky. He feels like he’s being slowly simmered in a bowl of stew, sweating through his black wife-beater. He hasn’t taken a shower in so long that his olfactory nerves have given up on him two weeks ago.

He leans back against the wall, takes deep breaths. The air is thin and hard to breathe in. His head is dizzy, his limbs weak.

 _Not long now_ , he knows.

“Hello, Morgan.” He gives an abysmal attempt at a smile. He can feel himself trembling. “Maguna…” He trails off, not knowing what to say. The precious seconds tick by, like fine sand trickling down an hourglass. He’s losing time, losing focus, realizes that he’s been staring at nothing for a while. “Morgan… if you find this recording… don’t post it on social media. It’s gonna be a real tear-jerker.”

That was awful. Downright atrocious. Just what every nine-year-old girl wants to hear from her dying dad. God, he’s an awful parent.

“You know, just pretend you didn’t hear me say that last part – it’s appalling. I’m ashamed of myself. God, I wish my sense of humor came with an off switch… and anyway, I don’t know if you’re ever going to see this… I don’t know if you’re ever going to find me…” He swallows, throat dry, eyes burning. “And May, Ben… I don’t know if you’re… if you’re still…” His voice cracks. “Oh, God. I hope so.”

He presses a palm against his eyes so all he sees is black, but superimposed against the back of his eyelids is the moment that’s been playing on a loop in his brain since they left Titan.

_I don’t wanna go, Tony, please, please, I don’t wanna go._

Ash and dust and nothing. _Nothing, nothing, nothing –_

“I lost him,” he rasps. He sobs, but his face is dry. He has no moisture to spare. His body is a dried-out husk. Even his peeing hurts and the liquid comes out brown and murky. Instead, he makes retching noises. “I lost him, May, Ben. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I had him in my arms and he was crying and he was scared and he wanted me to save him and fix it, but I couldn’t and I didn’t and then… and then he was… he was…”

_Ash._

“I tried,” he mewls, begs. “I really tried. But I couldn’t… and then he was gone.”

He presses both hands over his face, hides in the comforting darkness, flimsy though it is. Several minutes pass where he just breathes. His chest aches like he’s just been trampled by an Irish dance troupe.

After what feels like an age, he lowers his hands from his face. He thinks he should talk about Peter some more, but he feels his chest seize at the thought, his psyche shying away from it, like _okay, no, that’s my hard limit._

“Today is day 21… or 22.” He tilts his head just slightly, so he’s staring out the window at outer space and all of its deadly majesty, with constellations and nebulas and galaxies everywhere he looks. He would think it’s a beautiful view, if not for the existential terror of staring into a void of space. “I look like shit, right?” He shoots a conspiratorial grin at the helmet. “Don’t use that word, that’s-” _Mom’s word_. The grin dies. His chest feels like it’s trying to cave in. “So yeah.” He clears his throat scratchily. “As you’ve probably deduced by now… _deduced_ , such a grown-up word… you should use it more often, Maguna… and I’m fine… apart from a… mild case of cystitis.”

 _I nearly died of infection,_ he doesn’t say. The persistent fever, the disgusting and pungent pus, the red swollen and irritated skin – all the typical symptoms of critical infection. He noted it all down – and kept his mouth shut about it. He doesn’t know why he didn’t say anything to Nebula, why he didn’t ask for help until it was almost too late, or maybe he does. Like putting himself once again in mortal danger would in any way be able to bring back Pepper and Peter.

Well, that method has never failed before. But there’s a first time for everything, it seems.

And the constant discomfort of the infection just felt so psychologically appropriate.

Nebula gave him hell when she found out. Tony thinks Pepper would like her. Peter wouldn’t have just liked her – he would have _loved_ her. How could Peter not, when Nebule could pass for a character that walked out of one of his sci-fi movies.

“I have a friend here helping me,” he goes on. “Nebula, her name is – but I just call her the blue meanie. You’d love her, Maguna. Very practical. Only a tiny bit sadistic. And she’s blue, literally blue – like Avatar, except half robot, so she’s way cooler, like… twelve percent cooler, at least.”

He smiles a little like he’s dying, which he is. Hah. Gallows humor. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

“She’s been helping me fix this spaceship – some fuel cells were cracked, but we figured out a way to reverse the ion charge to buy ourselves about 48 hours of flight time… but it’s now dead in the water.” A wry smile plays at his lips. “We’re about… one thousand light years away from the nearest seven-eleven.” _And oxygen will run out tomorrow morning._ He forces a smile. “And Morgan…” His voice wavers. “I want you to know that I tried to get back to you… I really tried, Maguna… pull off one more surprise… but it looks like… I should probably lie down.” He runs a hand over his face. “God, I’m getting my syntaxes all mixed up.” He takes another shallow breath. It’s so difficult to think. “Morgan… Maguna… Madam Secretary…” He chuckles breathlessly. “I love you so much… so, _so_ much. Mum loves you. Peter loves you… you have to listen to your Uncle Happy and Uncle Rhodey, okay? They’ll- they’ll take care of you…” Black spots in his vision. “My little girl… you have to be brave, you have to be strong… my brave little girl… I love you three thousand.”

He reaches for his helmet. His entire arm is trembling. He fumbles for the button inside the helmet, fingers numb.

_There’s a tree, the largest, oldest tree that has ever existed, and the tree Is called Yggdrasil. Tony knows this, somehow. He doesn’t know how he knows it – but he just does. Its thick trunk is knotted and gnarly, made entirely of galaxies – ellipticals, spirals, irregulars. Its boughs are nebulas – dark, supernova, planetary, emission, reflection. Its branches are solar systems. Its leaves are planets – terrestrials, giants, dwarfs, gaseous, icy. Its fruits are suns and stars – dwarfs and giants and super-giants, whites and reds and rotting blackholes._

_Birds are roosting amidst the leaves, huddling down in their nests, hopping from branch to branch, chirping in harmonious song, swooping through the air. But on the opposite side of the tree, almost hidden from view, is one particular nest filled with three particular birds –_

_There’s a female finch with gleaming red plumage, jewel-bright green eyes, and a sharp beak; a stout sparrow with watchful, beady eyes that puffs its feathers out threateningly; a swallow with sleek, gunmetal-grey feathers and razor claws; and a chick – a baby swift, not yet fledged, peeking its tiny head curiously over the edge of the nest._

_Tony looks around and sees a hummingbird zooming around him – not a chick, but barely fledged, with jewel-bright plumage in tones of red with hints of blue and gold, wings a blur of hyperactive motion._

_**Come**_ , he tells the fledging, **follow me, we return to the nest** _._

_He spreads his wings and takes flight, pushing off from his perch. The fledgling hummingbird zooms at his side, occasionally flying away to look at something interesting, or to chirp friendly and curious greetings to the other birds, or getting blown off-course by a strong draft. The fledgling hummingbird is a natural flier, but young and inexperienced, prone to impulsiveness and easily distracted._

_**Stay close**_ , he scolds the fledgling.

_All the feathers on Tony’s neck stand on end. The fledgling hummingbird chirps in alarm. All around them, sleeping birds wake and hop out of their nests, and the panicked screeching rises to a cacophony of screams._

_Below them, a face looms out of the darkness, leering up at all the birds roosting amongst Yggdrasil’s branches. The head is purple and giant and seems to be floating, but Tony knows the head is attached to a terrible body, ropy with muscle and impenetrable to his beak and claws. The face looks dead, like it’s chiseled from rock, but the eyes… its eyes are the only thing about it that seems alive – pinpricks of malice, like living diamonds. Two arms emerge out of the gloom, ropy and muscled grotesquely, like baseballs have been stuffed underneath the skin; one hand wears a golden glove with six gems. The arms grab Yggdrasil’s trunk and **wrench**._

_Yggdrasil shakes. Feathered bodies scream and plummet to their deaths, disappearing into the gloom below. Fruit turns black with rot, leaves wither and dry and crumble to flakes, branches creak and snap and break from their boughs._

_Tony looks around wildly. The hummingbird fledgling is gone._

**_Kid!_ ** _He chirps, flaps his wings and spins in circles. **Kid!**_

_The baby swift teethers on the edge of her nest and almost topples over, but the grey swallow and the stout sparrow pull her back to the safety of her nest, spreading their wings protectively over the tiny chick’s head._

_But the red finch drops like a stone, wings flapping uselessly. Tony dives for her, claws outstretched and grasping._

_He misses her by an inch, and she falls._

**_Pep!_ **

He’s sitting in the Benatar’s pilot seat, head lolling uncontrollably. Through the windshield, he sees a figure, golden and shining, curves like a woman, glowing skin, flying hair.

_Are you here to take me with you, Pep?_

_…_

“World governments are in pieces. The parts that _are_ still working are trying to take a census. And it looks like he did-”

Natasha stops abruptly. The pictures of Sam and Wanda hitting her with all the force and damage of bullets fired point-blank into her gut. She remembers Wanda half-bent over Vision, head tilted back, expression briefly immortalized into one of relief, of alleviation of suffering, before she’d dissolved into atoms.

Wanda hadn’t been afraid, in the end – she’d wanted to die.

And she remembers seeing Pietro's face when he realized his sister was gone, was ashes - only for a moment though, because in the next moment, the speedster was gone, had left, had _ran_. No one has seen Pietro Maximoff since they lost the battle against Thanos in Wakanda.

They’d searched for Sam, calling out and never receiving an answer, like a twistedly morbid game of Marco Polo. Unanswered questions bounce around in Natasha’s skull, making her ears ring and her teeth rattle. Where was he last? How did he go? Was he afraid? Did he know what was happening to him? Was it quick, at least? Did it hurt? Or was it painless?

She doesn’t know. She’ll never know. In this case, she thinks ignorance is bliss.

Whenever Natasha sleeps and dreams, that is what she sees in her nightmares – Wanda waiting to die, docile and almost _yearning_ , longingly embracing oblivion with both eyes wide open; and Sam, always out of reach, always just at the edge of her vision, but never responding to her calls, like a wraith or a phantom.

Natasha didn’t get to say goodbye to either of them. It happened so fast.

But worse than losing Wanda and Sam, and even Pietro's abandonment, is what she knows happened to Clint.

Clint who –

Natasha swallows, heart clenching painfully in her chest. “He did exactly what he said he was gonna do,” she goes on. No one brings up her momentarily verbal standstill. “Thanos wipes out fifty percent of all living creatures.”

Tony looks _terrible_ , even more terrible than Natasha feels. Having been stranded in space while running out of food and water and oxygen for three weeks, he probably _feels_ more terrible than Natasha does. He’s been wheeled into the meeting, along with an IV drip stand with a tube of clear liquid attached to his arm. Through the loose folds of his bathrobe, she can see every one of his ribs. He’s taken a shower but hasn’t yet shaved, and his stubble is speckled with grey and white hairs. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes are bloodshot, wild and cornered-looking like a snarling animal’s – a predator that’s lost its teeth and claws, critically wounded and waiting to die. He looks _old_ , like he’s aged a decade in three weeks. His left forearm is bare, and the words on his skin are greyed out.

He also looks like he should be confined to bed rest for at least a month. Or barring that, he bears more than a passing resemblance of an escapee from a mental institution.

“Where is he now?” When no one immediately provides an answer, Tony pulls back his lips in the barest hint of a snarl. The light in his eyes is fractured, and staring into them is like looking through the glass in a kaleidoscope. “ _Where?_ ” Right at this moment, he seems more animal than human – rabid and poised to attack.

Everyone in the room exchange silent glances.

“We don’t know.” Steve has his arms folded across his chest, but his shoulders are slumped. He looks tired, defeated – it’s a look Natasha has never seen on him before, not even when they were fugitives on the run from their own government for violating the Accords, not even after his fallout with Tony in Siberia. “He just… opened a portal and walked through.” He gives a very half-hearted shrug.

Tony’s eyes bounce away from the super-soldier, even turning his wheelchair further away. The corners of Steve’s eyes tighten at the explicit rejection, but thankfully, he doesn’t push.

“What’s wrong with him?” Tony points at Thor, who’s sitting to one side, separate from the group, quiet and glaring into his lap. The look in the Thunder God’s eyes is somehow both sullen and lost. Natasha knows he’s been like that ever since Thanos got away.

“Oh, he’s pissed,” Rocket the Raccoon says, from where he’s slumped against a cabinet. Natasha expects Tony to make a quip about getting fur all over his furniture, but the inventor just lets his arms fall limply to his sides, blinking at Rocket the Raccoon in an astonished manner. “He thinks he failed,” Rocket goes on. “Which of course, he did, but you know, there’s a lot of that going around, ain’t there?”

Stark looks at Rhodes, eyebrows raised, like he’s silently asking _you see the talking raccoon too, right?_ Rhodes nods at him.

Apparently deciding that he’s not hallucinating, Stark turns back to Rocket. “Honestly, until this exact second, I thought you were a Build-A-Bear.”

“Maybe I am.”

“We’ve been hunting Thanos for three weeks now – deep space scans and satellites… and we’ve got nothing,” Steve says. “Tony, you fought him-”

“Who told you that?” Tony asks, tone caustic and spiteful. “I didn’t find him. No, he wiped my face with a planet while the Bleecker Street magician gave away the Stone.” He starts to slur, like he’s speaking with cotton balls in his mouth. He’s shaking with poignant emotion, what might be guilt or rage or anguish or loss, or most likely, an ill-timed and potentially volatile amalgamation of all of them combined. “That’s what happened. There was no fight-”

“Okay,” Steve says in a placating manner, a tone that’s guaranteed to piss Tony off. Natasha resists the urge to sigh.

“-because he’s unbeatable.”

“Did he give you any clues? Any coordinates? Anything?” Steve asks with a bite of impatience in his voice.

Stark makes a noise like blowing a raspberry. Steve and Natasha exchange troubled looks. “I saw this coming a few years back. I had a vision. I didn’t want to believe it. I thought I was dreaming.”

“Tony, I’m gonna need you to focus.”

 _Don’t do that_ , Natasha wants to warn him. _Tony isn’t like us. He’s not a soldier. You can’t treat him like one. Push him and he’ll break. He’s halfway there already._

“And I _needed_ you.” Tony looks up, fixes Steve with a frozen, seething, disdainful look that makes the super-soldier go still. “As in _past tense._ That _trumps_ what you need. It’s too late, buddy. Sorry. You know what I need?”

His arm jerks, sending the contents of the table flying and upending his soup bowl. Everyone flinches back from him, as if one wheelchair-bound, cadaverous quinquagenarian who was on death’s doorstep just a few hours ago is more intimidating than all of Earth’s mightiest heroes put together. Natasha sees Steve swallowing painfully. Over the sound of metal rattling, broth spills everywhere, dripping down the table edges and staining Tony’s bathrobe.

“I need a shave, and I believe I remember telling-”

“Tony,” Rhodes says.

“-what we needed was a suit of armor around the world!” Tony rips out his IV. His eyes are crazed and hysterical, insane with grief. “Remember that? Whether it impacted our precious _freedoms_ or not – that’s what we _needed_!”

“Well, that didn’t work out, did it?” Anyone who doesn’t know Steve would think him uncaring and cold. But Natasha _does_ know him. She knows his loss in the dark rings of shadow beneath his eyes, his guilt in the slump of his shoulders, in the way he tries to make himself smaller, less of a target. His agony and self-blame and misery compartmentalized away; Steve Rogers tucked out of sight while Captain America takes center stage.

 _You’re not the only one who’s lost someone you loved,_ she wants to yell, to scream it at Tony. _We lost too! It’s not just you! Wanda and Sam and Barnes and Vision and T’Challa! We lost them! We lost all of them! It wasn’t just you and it wasn’t just Pepper! Don’t you even care about them?_

_At least you still have Morgan. Your wife is dead but your daughter is alive. Do you know how lucky that is? Do you know how many people have lost **everything**? Lost them all?_

**_Auntie Nat!_ **

Natasha bottles it all down and away, focuses on the mission, like the good little soldier and spy that she is.

Tony is still raving. “I said ‘we’d lose’. You said-” He pitches his voice low, in a mockery of Steve’s baritone. “ _We’ll do that together too._ And guess what, Cap? We _lost_. And you weren’t there.” He jabs an accusatory finger at Steve, stumbling a little. Rhodes moves to steady his best friend. “But that’s what we do, right? Our best work _after_ the fact? We’re the Avengers – we’re the _Avenge_ -rs – not the _Prevent_ -gers…” Tony turns, swivel-eyed, to Rhodes.

“Okay,” Rhodes says.

“Right?”

“You made your point. Just sit down.” Rhodes tries to usher Stark back to his chair, but the inventor resists him.

“Nah, nah! Here’s my point. You know what?”

“Tony, you’re sick.”

Over Rhodes’ shoulder, Tony points at Carol, who looks back at him with bemusement. “She’s great, by the way.”

“Sit down!”

“We need you. You’re new blood… _bunch of tired old mills!_ ” Tony snarls, shoving past his best friend and marching right up to Steve. Tony jabs a finger in Steve’s face, and for a moment Natasha legitimately thinks he’s going to try and claw out Steve’s eyes in a fit of deranged frenzy. She can hear Tony’s breath rattling in his lungs. “I got nothing for you, Cap!” His voice drops to a venomous hush. It’s almost intimate – a poisonous serpent slithering in the grass, fangs bared and prepared for the kill. “I got no coordinates, no clues, no strategies, no options. Zero. Zip. Nada. _No trust. **Liar.**_ ” Natasha sees Tony clawing at his own chest and is truly afraid he’s suffering from a heart attack, but he simply rips his arc reactor away from his skin, forces it into Steve’s hand. “Here, take this. You find him and you put that on – you _hide_.”

Tony’s knees buckle and he half collapses.

“Tony!” Rhodes drops down to his side. Steve stays standing, almost as if in a stupor, holding the arc reactor and gazing down at his former friend. The super-soldier looks as if he’s been flayed open.

Tears track down Tony’s cheeks, but he doesn’t seem aware of them. He doesn’t seem to be aware of Rhodes either. His eyes are on Steve, but Natasha doubts that he’s seeing Steve at all. Tony looks at Steve like the super-soldier is something very far away from him, or someone whose name he doesn’t remember.

“Why you?” All the energy seems to drain out of Tony. His eyes are two wet red holes in his head. “Why you and not her?”

…

Tony isn’t even particularly surprised to hear about the outcome of the ‘mission’ to kill Thanos and take back the Stones.

They failed to find the Stones and reverse the Snap, you say?

Egads!

Jeepers!

How _noteworthy_.

No one could have _possibly_ seen that coming.

Bedridden, he turns on the news, so that instead of just his own hysteria, he can lie down and enjoy listening to the hysterics of the rest of the world as well. On widescreen high resolution!

Half the world gone. Maybe a bit more. Aircrafts plunging out of the sky when their pilots were dusted, crashing into the ocean, into buildings, killing thousands. Emergency services halved and stretched thin. Doctors dusted in the middle of surgery. Noxious clouds mushrooming up from nuclear plants. Rioting and anarchy and free-for-alls in the streets. Little kids wandering around screaming for their parents. Parents running around crying for _their_ children.

Oh, and May and Ben are dusted.

Tony has reached his misery limit.

He was assaulted by Squidward, the Kidnapping Torturer Cultist edition. He was unwillingly catapulted into space in a giant donut. He crash-landed onto Thanos’s ruined home-planet. He faced down against the literal giant purple dickhead that’s been his worst nightmare for decades. He was stabbed right through the stomach by his own nano-suit and almost bled to death (again). He watched as Strange gave away the Time Stone. Then he watched as almost everyone dissolve into atoms.

He had his pseudo-son literally crumble to ash in his arms. He lost his wife. He spent three weeks slowly starving and asphyxiating in a ruined spaceship stranded in the literal void of space, which is also where he almost expired from oxygen deficiency. He blew up at Steve, then suffered a heart attack.

Finally, he wakes up in the hospital in severe pain, only to be told that ‘yeah, two of your closest friends are dead too’.

During the past month, he’s sweated, retched, and choked down so many tears his body has simply given up on being heartbroken, like his brain is telling him: _Okay, sorry. I can’t be any more depressed than I already am!_

He imagines a tiny digital alert box:

_Hardware could not compute additional misery. To install additional capacity for misery on this hardware, restart the installation._

His mental mouse clicks on the button marked ‘ _Remind me later_ ’ _._

Instead of feeling heartbroken, he feels relieved – that he doesn’t have to look into May and Ben’s eyes and tell them he failed to protect their nephew; that he doesn’t have to weather their anger, their blame, their grief.

Or worse, their forgiveness and empathy.

He watches the news some more.

Fifty percent of humanity survived.

It’s still fifty percent more survivors than Thanos left on Earth the first go round.

It’s like a cosmic joke.

 _Well, Pep,_ he thinks, _we officially half-assed it._

He starts to laugh. At some point, he must cross the threshold into hysterical delirium, because there’s a needle in his arm and the world slips away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I won't be updating for at least two months, because of REAL LIFE.
> 
> Guys, I made a mistake when I committed to a regular posting schedule - which is that I felt obligated to write so much in such a short space of time. It's at the point where it stops feeling fun and starts feeling like work, and that's just not on.
> 
> So I'm taking a break, because it's hard to be in a mood to write, especially when you're writing a depressing story like this one, when so many depressing things are happening in reality right now, with COVID-19 and everything - guys, if we wanna feel depressed, we can just turn on the news, right?
> 
> I am NOT ABANDONING THIS STORY! Chapter 7 is all written and only needs to be edited. Chapter 8 is basically just a short epilogue after a time-skip.
> 
> So, I will see you guys in a few months, okay? Stay safe please. Wash your hands. Maintain social distance.


	7. Pepper, Rhodey, Morgan, Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm back! First things first, thanks to everyone reading this story who's been so understanding and patient. Sorry for keeping you guys waiting.
> 
> I know I said last chapter that this story only had one chapter and an epilogue to go, but it turns out, I was wrong. Chapter 8 is not an epilogue, because there are still quite a few things to cover.
> 
> And now, as promised in the tags, in this chapter we finally have the Steve and Tony reconciliation... which is less of a reconciliation and more of a "we're still not friends, but we agree not to hate each other anymore" - which is the best I could do. It only took seventy thousand words to get here! ;)
> 
> Inspiration taken from the Vampire Diaries:  
> Damon Salvatore: "Because in the end, when you lose somebody, every candle, every prayer is not going to make up for the fact that the only thing you have left is a hole in your life where that somebody that you cared about used to be."
> 
> Kudos and comments are welcome!

**2019**

The Avengers slink off, licking their wounds in defeat, tail tucked between their legs.

Tony slinks off too. He bundles up Morgan and brings them both to the lake-house. It’s a matter of safety as well. There’s nowhere else that could be safe for them. The entire world is out for their blood. Tony has seen the riots, the protests, the ‘ _Where were our heroes when we needed them?’_ banners. Everyone has lost someone – parents, children, spouses, siblings, friends… and all the survivors are angry, are grieving – they all want someone to blame.

Tony can relate. He wants someone to blame as well.

Then he gets to work.

The Time Stone has been destroyed, so the tried and true method of fixing things is no longer viable. But there are other ways of travelling in time – and if they can manage a do-over with magic space stones, then they can do the same with science.

And Tony knows science.

He can _fix_ this.

He _can_ fix this.

So he works.

When he’s not working, he’s drinking.

With the skill cultivated during the decades spent suppressing the traumatic memories of his parents deaths until they erupted quite spectacularly and impressively in his face and at the worst possible moment, Tony trains his conscious mind (with the help of copious amounts of alcohol) to avoid all thoughts of Pepper and Peter – which just means, of course, that those thoughts have a tendency to reemerge in his subconscious mind.

When he sleeps, he dreams of Pepper – he dreams of birds falling from a grand tree, the cosmic trunk split unnaturally in half: Pepper is always on one half, while Tony is on the other, and however hard he tries, however hard he flies, he can never cross the chasm to reach her.

He often forgets the dreams as soon as he awakes, except for nonsensical bits and pieces.

The fondly exasperated way Pepper called his antics “bourgeois”, in that inherent Pepper way that makes it sound simultaneously like a pet-name and a horrendous insult. The time they took a family picnic at a vineyard in Switzerland, and the taste of grapes on Pepper’s lips. He’ll wake up, drowsy and content, and turn on his side to feel the cold sheets on Pepper’s side of the bed, press his nose against the faded scent of her pillow.

Once, he wakes up, driven to tears by the memory of Pepper reading aloud to him, during the early days of their relationship, when he was still technically her boss and they were uncertainly feeling each other out. He remembers his head in her lap, the fingers of one of her hand running soothingly through his hair, her other hand holding up the thick paperback – _A Critique of Postcolonial Reason._ The contents are just as boring as the title suggests, but he loved the sound of her voice, the lilt to it as complicated tongue-twisting words flowed off her tongue, loved to watch the play of her fingers every time she turned a page.

He buys a new copy of the book the next day, sets it on Pepper’s bedside table. The thick paperback is, in quick succession, joined by Pepper’s favorite overlarge comfort sweatshirt, neatly folded; a bottle of near-empty mountain laurel perfume; her organic face cream; her fancy monogrammed fountain pen; her _Best Mom Ever_ tea mug; and a plastic airtight bag containing a few red-gold strands yanked from her hairbrush.

Tony knows it’s unhealthy. He just rapidly losing the ability to care.

The dreams of Peter are more amorphous, nebulous and fig-mental: oftentimes, he’s searching for something he’s lost, which is a bit too metaphorically on the nose for him.

Except for that one dream of Peter taking Tony to a flea market to buy a giant inflatable Lego bouncy castle, before leading Tony to a parked garbage truck and teaching him to dumpster dive – which is graphic in its surrealism.

So Tony works. He drinks. He avoids sleep.

There’s a solution to all of this – he just has to find it. He’s so close to the answer, but the closer he gets, the less it cooperates with him.

…

“How are you keeping?”

Rhodey’s dark eyes bounce all around Tony’s lab-space, from the whiskey bottles shoved higgledy-piggledy out of the way, stacked together like bowling pins, some lying on their sides, some in alcohol-soaked pieces – to what was once a sophisticated and expensive ellipsometer, but now rather resembles a heap of melted scrap after it bore the emotional brunt of Tony’s most recent failure and his subsequent temper; lingering on the marks on the wall – black scorches and blood smeared from his busted knuckles; roving over Tony himself – his unkempt and ungroomed jaw, the damp circles ringing his eyes, the red crusty scabbing over the broken skin of his knuckles, the stains of questionable fluids darkening the fabric of his week-old t-shirt and jeans.

“What are you looking at?” Tony growls. The words come out more hostile than he means it to, Rhodey’s palpable censure weighing down his already aching joints like sand.

“I’m looking at you,” Rhodey says simply.

Worse than the silent disapprobation is the almost tangible sympathy, like Tony is something to be _pitied_.

“Oh, save it,” Tony snips, bristling.

His words seem to bounce off Rhodey’s impassable veneer of calm tenacity.

“You’re a mess. When was the last time you had a shower?” Rhodey asks. “You looked in a mirror lately?”

“I know everyone has an opinion about my inordinate vanity, Rhodes, but I’d assumed you knew by now that I’m not _actually_ narcissistic.”

“And the last time you slept?”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

“Yeah, you look like you’re halfway there already,” Rhodey remarks. “And in a hurry to finish the other half.”

Tony closes his eyes. The bright lights in his lab-space leave shadowy afterimages that form strange patterns behind his eyelids. He covers his face with the meat of his palms, presses down against his sockets until the red shapes in his eyelids unfold themselves like kaleidoscopes. His hands feel clammy and sticky with sweat. Something in the lab-space smells of heated plastic and hot metal, alcohol and vomit, burnt hair and stale oxygen.

Tony thinks the smell might be coming from him.

“You are not.” The words are as cold as Siberian snow. Tony lets not a shred of his acrimony and frustration seep into his voice. “My wife.”

“No,” Rhodey agrees. “But I am your best friend.”

The cadence of his voice is familiar. It’s the same way he used to sound during their last year at MIT, after the funeral, when Tony tried to numb all Howard-related emotion with booze and sex and drugs. Rhodey would extricate him from his impolitic nighttime activities (and it wasn’t always orgies either), tuck him into bed like a little kid, wait for Tony to rouse from his drug/booze/sex-induced sopor in the morning, then lecture him about responsible collegiate behavior, that same long-suffering disposition never wavering.

The variation of the same old conversation, following the same old format:

_“You are not my dad.”_

_“No, I’m your best friend.”_

He keeps his eyes closed, but he can hear Rhodey moving around his workspace, poking at his projects and holographic schematics. _Don’t touch them,_ he thinks. _Keep your hands to yourself. You’ll ruin it. I’m almost there. Just let me be. Just leave me alone. This time is it. This one will work. I’m so close I can taste it –_

“Tony.” There’s an ocean’s worth of discontent in that one word. “Time travel. Still?”

Like Rhodey is _disappointed_. Goddamned fucking _disappointed_ that Tony hasn’t given up like everyone else has, that he’s still trying to find a way, that he still holds out hope for –

Tony takes a deep breath.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Sublimation and Repression. His two new best friends, since his current ones appear to be _useless_.

“I’m working.” Tony’s cadence is as flat as a sheet of plastic, and about as emotive.

He opens his eyes just in time to see Rhodey’s features harden, like ice thickening on the surface of the lake. “This has to stop.”

Tony barks out a jarring, grating laugh. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it _does_.” Rhodey’s fingers wrap around the younger man’s wrist, and squeezes once – not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to _hurt_. “This has to stop,” Rhodey says again, giving his best friend a full-body shake that rattles his teeth. “ _You_ need to stop.”

“ _I can’t_.” Tony means for it to sound angry. He _is_ angry. But the words come out as a plea, like a child in prayer. “I can’t _stop_ , Rhodey. I can’t – this is Pepper, Pep, my wife, _my Pep_ – how could I stop?”

The words catch and tangle together, stick in his throat like too-sweet and too-thick honey, tumble cumbersomely off his swollen and unwieldy tongue. He doesn’t know how to explain. He doesn’t know how to make Rhodey _understand_. He can’t even think of the words. If Rhodey ever loved someone like Tony loves Pepper, if he ever felt even a _fraction_ of the bereavement Tony felt –

Pepper was his Polaris, his North Star, his Jiminy Cricket, the magnetic compass forever pointing north, guiding him home.

She’s the rudder of his ship. She’s not his anchor. She never keeps him moored – she never had to. Instead, Pepper was his harbor, a place to rest and dock when the seas got too squally and choppy, a slice of safety, a promise of _home_ and _family._ Tony was always free to go, free to leave, and he did – but he always came back to her, just as she always came back to him.

Tony yanks himself from Rhodey’s grip, stumbles back. He bangs his shin against a table leg, but the pain shooting up his leg is secondary and peripheral, as remote as a far-flung star, almost abstract, like something that’s happening outside his body. His consciousness feels like a small helium balloon, tethered to his body by the flimsiest, fraying string. The balloon has no weight, no strength. Ever since the Snap, it’s been expanding, getting lighter and lighter. Tony knows that in time – not now, and maybe not soon – the balloon will burst or the string will break, and his life and sanity will float away.

 _LOOK AT ME!_ He wants to scream at Rhodey. _LOOK AT ME! LOOK!_

_Look at this house. I bought this house for her, Rhodey. She loved this cabin. She loved to sit on the pier and watch the sunset over the lake while she dipped her toes in the water. She loved to relax on the porch with a book and a badly handknitted shawl and feel the evening air nip at her skin. She loved the way it feels like we live in the middle of nowhere. She loved the smell of the earth, the dew on the grass during the early dawn. She was so devoted to our little garden. She liked to walk barefoot through the undergrowth of the forest and feel the dirt between her toes._

_We were supposed to be happy here, Rhodey. I **wanted** us to be happy here. I wanted this to be our fairytale happy ending. One lifetime was too short for me. I wanted another. I wanted us to grow old together one more time. She left me too soon. We were so, so happy here so, so briefly. And I can still see it, see her. Can’t you?_

_I see her in this house, Rhodey. I see her next to me in bed. I see her arms, slender and peach-and-cream, sprinkled with freckles. I think I’ve kissed and tasted every single one of her freckles. I see her features relaxed in sleep. I hear her breathing. I smell her rose shampoo. I feel every inch of her pressed against every inch of me. I hear her complain about my morning breath when I lean over to kiss her and taste her smile, before our daughter jumps onto our bed and demands we wake up to play._

_I see her in the lake. It’s where she taught Morgan how to swim, you know. I remember their heads bobbing in the silver water like seals. I remember staring at Pepper’s back, watching her muscles move smoothly under her skin. In the glare of the sunlight, her tan lines were almost invisible, and I remember thinking how perfect and whole she looked. I remember when Pepper got out of the water and put on her blouse again, and the fabric soaked entirely through until it was completely sheer, clinging to every inch of her skin. I remember her laughing at me and stealing my sunglasses. Her nose was peeling because she forgot to put on sun lotion._

_I look at the couch in the living room – the blue one with white cushions – and I remember Pepper exiling me from the master bedroom after she caught a stewardess flirting with me. I look at my music collection and remember the way we danced to our Francoise Hardy and Animal Collective albums. I only have to open the pantry to see her favorite teas – and remember how she always waited until they were lukewarm before drinking them._

_Her things are still in our bathroom. Her clothes are still in our wardrobe. Her ring still sits on my finger._

_This house is full of her, Rhodey. Don’t you see her? Because I do. I see her everywhere._

_Now look at me, Rhodey._

_Look at my eyes and my hair – Pepper has always loved them. Look at my wrinkles – she’s kissed every single one of them, right after laughing at me when I complained of getting old. Do you see the spot on my left temple where I have more grey hair than usual? That’s Pepper’s favorite spot to kiss. She told me I was getting distinguished, like a silver fox. Look at my shirts – Pepper’s not here to steal them. I always loved seeing her wearing my clothing. Look at my hands – they slot perfectly together with Pep’s, do you know? Look at the picture of her I carry around in my pocket. My wedding ring still sits on my finger, have you noticed? The same spot it’s been occupying for ten years. The same spot it will sit until the day I die and they bury me next to her tombstone._

_I never even got to say goodbye, Rhodey. I didn’t even get to bury a real body. I don’t even have her ashes. I have **nothing**._

_Even when I had nothing, I had Pepper. When the world ended, I had Pepper. When I came back, I had Pepper. I **need** her. To hold me together. To remind me there’s good and love and happiness in the world. To make up for my faults and for me to make up for hers. To be strong where I’m weak. To be unyielding where I’m flexible. To be subtle where I’m flashy. To be the urbane and refined CEO dominatrix to my eccentric and capricious genius inventor._

_She was my perfect complement, and I don’t think I ever appreciated how ravishingly beautiful she was until she was gone._

_No one has ever loved me the way Pepper has._

_I still remember our last kiss. She was worried. I was, too, but I tried not to show it. I think Pepper saw through me though – she always did. I tasted rose wine on her lips. She tasted nectarine on mine. My fingers were sticky with the juice. She told me I had a bit of nectarine skin stuck between my teeth._

_Now I don’t even have **her**. I have **nothing**. I have **less** than nothing. I have –_

_I have Morgan._

_But she is her mother’s daughter, and more than anything else, I see my wife in **her** – the way she smiles with just one corner of her mouth, the emerald green flecks in her warm brown eyes, the way she tilts her head like she’s considering a question (the way she and Pepper used to do it to me, like I’m the biggest question that has ever existed)._

_How could I stop reaching for that, Rhodey? For Pep? How could you ask me to?_

_I can’t._

_I won’t._

“You need to stop,” Rhodey says again, unwitting of Tony’s internal screaming. “You have to. And you’ll do it for Morgan.”

It’s like Rhodey has spontaneously gained telepathic powers and reached out to pluck the thought right out of Tony’s head.

“What?” Tony gives a mirthless laugh. “For Morgan? Who do you think I’m doing this _for_?”

Rhodey puts his hands in his pockets, flattens his mouth into a thin line. His posture radiates… not antagonism, but definite hints of standoffishness. “Well,” Rhodey deadpans. “It looks a lot to me like you’re doing all this for yourself.

The barb hits home and stings like an open-handed slap to the face.

“I’m sorry.” Rhodey sounds terse. “I really am. I miss Pepper too. But someone needs to say it, and I think it needs to be me. A year ago, Morgan had two parents, and now she has one – _barely_.” He pins Tony with a harsh look. “Tones, your daughter lost her mom. She needs-”

“She needs _her mom,_ ” Tony blusters. “In case it’s escaped your notice, Rhodey, I am _not_ her mother.”

“No.” Rhodey’s voice goes dangerously low. “But you _are_ her father – and it’s time you start _acting_ like it.”

“You see, you say that, but what you really mean is that I need to start acting like her father _and_ mother-”

Rhodey bares his teeth in a snarl, a flash of white against dark skin. “Do _not_ put words in my mouth!”

“Well, I’m sorry, but _I can’t do that_!” Tony yells, his voice going embarrassingly effeminate and shrill. “I can’t take the place of her mother, Rhodey! Just like she can’t take the place of my wife! Neither of us is Pepper, so what would be the point?”

“The point is that Pepper would never have wanted this!” Rhodey shouts right back at him. “She would never have wanted you to shut yourself away! She would never have wanted Morgan to be neglected over some infinitesimal, practically _impossible_ chance at getting her back! She would have wanted the father of her daughter _to be there for her_! She would have-”

“She would have wanted to be here _herself_!” Tony roars. He tastes blood in the back of his throat. “Don’t you dare act like you know that’s what she wanted, Rhodey, because Pepper is _dead_ , and the last time we checked, however many questions we ask them, the dead don’t answer back. But what we both know about Pepper is that she loved Morgan more than anything in this world. And if she could choose, she’d want to be _here_ , with her _daughter_ , with her _husband_!”

“You’re so selfish,” Rhodey spits in disgust. “So _unbelievably_ selfish! I can’t believe you’re doing this – neglecting your own daughter, chasing after a ghost – after all the _shit_ Howard put your through while he was chasing after Captain America’s ghost in the Arctic-”

“This isn’t the same!”

“This is exactly the same, you stinking piece of shit-!”

“Morgan _needs_ her mother!” Tony bellows. “Pepper _needs_ to be here! She needs to be here to watch Morgan grow up! To raise our daughter with me! To tuck Morgan into bed at night and read her favorite bedtime stories! To make our daughter chicken soup when she gets sick while I sneak her juice-pops! To tell Morgan about boys while I scare them off! She needs to be here for family dinners and birthdays and anniversaries and date nights! She needs to be here when we send Morgan off to college, to help our daughter move into her dorm room, to help Morgan with her first job application. We were supposed to decide if we wanted to have more kids, if we wanted to give Morgan more brothers and sisters.” He slams his palms onto the lab countertop, so hard he feels something in his shoulder jerk painfully. He ignores it. “We were supposed to have a _lifetime_ of those choices… and now, that’s all gone.”

“Yeah, it is.” Rhodey breathes heavily, like he’s been running a marathon. His fists are clenched at his side. He seems to be moments away from committing physical violence. “That pretty little picture you painted… the perfect future you imagined… all of that went up in smoke a year ago… along with your wife.” Tony rears back like he’s been physically punched. “Pepper dusted,” Rhodey presses on ruthlessly, emphasizing each word, dark eyes flashing furiously. “Pepper. Dusted. But Morgan didn’t. Your wife didn’t make it, but your daughter _did_. You didn’t lose it all, Tony. You still have her. You still have me. You still have Happy. You still have your _family_ … but you won’t if you carry on like this. You’ll turn into Howard, and your daughter will turn into _you._ Do you really want that, Tony? Because if you do, then keep going, and one day you’ll look up from your obsession and realize that your daughter resents the hell out of you!”

“I’m her dad-”

“And she’s not a little girl anymore, Tony!” Rhodey roars, spittle flying from his mouth. “She’s not required to love you blindly anymore! You have to work for it! You can’t wallow in your own cesspit of victimized feelings forever!”

“If we hadn’t come back, Pepper wouldn’t be gone.” Tony’s lungs feel like they’re being constricted. “I didn’t want to… to come back… I wanted to stay there… it was the end of the world, but we were together, and we were safe… we were alive. I didn’t want to risk that. But Pepper… she convinced me… she wanted to save everyone…” He looks at Rhodey, and an ugly, visceral, rotten feeling rises up from his chest, like a geyser. “She wanted to save _you,_ ” he says spitefully. “You and the entire universe. And now that she’s gone, now that she needs _us_ to save _her_ … now that the tables are turned and it’s time for you to repay the favor… how do you react? You go ‘oh, no thank you. I think I’ll pass’?”

He regrets it the second the words are out of his mouth. He’s gone so far beyond sticking a toe out of line and has crossed right over it riding on the backs of a horde of stampeding elephants.

“THE PAIN OF LOSING PEPPER IS NOT EXCLUSIVE TO YOU!” Rhodey bellows. He grabs Tony’s collar with both fists and hauls him up until the younger man is craning up on his tiptoes. “SHE WASN’T JUST YOUR WIFE! SHE WAS MORGAN’S MOTHER! SHE WAS MY FRIEND! HAPPY’S FRIEND! NOT JUST YOUR FAMILY BUT ALL OF OURS! YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO MOURNS HER! WHO **HAS BEEN** MOURNING HER! YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO’S GRIEVING! WHERE DO YOU EVEN GET OFF, HUH, STARK? WHERE IS YOUR HIGH HORSE? YOU THINK, IF PEPPER COULD SEE YOU NOW, SHE’D WELCOME YOU BACK WITH OPEN ARMS? YOU THINK PEPPER WOULD BE GLAD TO SEE HOW YOU’VE BEEN TREATING HER DAUGHTER? SHE’D BE GODDAMNED FUCKING **ASHAMED** OF YOU-!”

Tony just reacts. He swipes a hand, wraps his fingers around the neck of a whiskey bottle, and throws it – not at Rhodey, Tony isn’t _that_ far gone – but at the wall. It shatters with an ear-splitting crash. Rhodey’s grip on his shirt collar loosens, and Tony shoves the other man back.

“GET OUT!” Tony yells. “Get the hell out of my sight! I want you out of my house and-!”

“Daddy?”

It’s like a bucket of cold water has been dumped over them both, instantaneously dousing the fraught tension. All the energy drains out of Tony. He feels weak and feverish, like his insides are eroding.

Morgan stands in the doorway to the lab, her brown eyes round as coins. She’s wearing a pale-yellow dress, cinched around the middle with a brown belt. Happy looms behind her, one protective hand on her shoulder, gazing at the scene with eyes dark with condemnation.

“Morgan.” The inside of Tony’s mouth tastes rancid. His throat is dry. He swallows painfully, hopes she hasn’t been listening long. “What are you doing here?”

Morgan fiddled with her little brown belt. “You told me this year I’m old enough to stay up and do the New Year’s countdown with you.”

Did he? Tony doesn’t remember that. Most likely, he was drunk. He grimaces at the thought. He takes a step towards the doorway, and Morgan skitters back nervously, like a newborn colt, half-hiding behind Happy’s leg and watching her father with big brown eyes.

The realization hits Tony like a brick to the stomach, knocking all the air out of him.

_I scared her._

It’s like the twisted, most warped feeling of déjà vu ever. All of a sudden, Tony is eleven years old, watching his father and mother arguing. Howard is crazy-eyed, spittle flying from his mouth, and stinking of whiskey. Howard throws something – a wine bottle or a tumbler, something made of glass – and the next thing Tony knows is pain. He’s crying and bleeding and his mother has scooped him up into her arms.

Maria takes her son back to his room, and is halfway through cleaning his wound when Howard shows up, clear-eyed and penitent, and smelling strongly of soap. Howard pulls his son into his lap, finishes cleaning and dressing the cut, then kisses Tony on the head, telling him how sorry he is.

Tony forgives him, but he never quite forgets, and he never lets his guard down around Howard when he was in his cups after that incident.

_“You’ll turn into Howard, and your daughter will turn into you.”_

Gasping, Tony spins on his heel so his back is facing the doorway. “Happy.” His voice trembles. “Happy, I don’t want her to see me like this.”

“But-” Morgan’s voice wobbles. “The countdown… the fireworks… Daddy, you promised…”

“Happy,” Tony says, voice strained.

“C’mon, kiddo.” Happy’s voice is soft. “Your dad is busy right now. He can join us later, kay?”

Morgan sniffles, but allows herself to be led away. As the footsteps recede, they hear a quick succession of booms from outside. Through the blinds, Tony can see muted but enormous starbursts of light – in muffled blues and purples, in faint reds and yellows. He looks down, rotates the wedding ring on his finger. For the first time, he’s struck by the urge to take it off. It feels somehow strangulating.

_“Say yes and I will love you, I will choose you, **forever**.”_

“I made a vow, Rhodey.” Tony’s voice is brittle. “I promised her _forever_.”

“You did,” Rhodey agrees. All the anger has been drained from his voice, and now the Colonel just looks sad. “But you made a promise to Morgan too.”

_“I love you three thousand, Maguna.”_

_Daddy, you promised._

…

**2020**

Freshly showered, groomed, and laundered, Tony leans against the frame of Morgan’s bedroom door, momentarily unnoticed. Morgan and Happy sit face-to-face on her Super Mario duvet, playing some sort of card game that Tony suspects Morgan made up. Happy’s shoes are discarded on the lime-green shag carpet, and his socks are green turtles against a blue backdrop. Morgan’s changed into a set of pajamas with a character from Sesame Street on it – it’s the yellow one with the head like a cauliflower, Tony’s forgot what its name is.

Morgan lays three cards down. The card faces are of cartoon rabbits. “I win!” she declares cheerfully. Her mouth is stained blood-red from cherry-flavored juice pops, making her look appealingly evil, like an adorable baby vampire.

Happy looks down at his hand, then huffs. “You’re kicking my ass.” Then he frowns and adds, “Don’t tell your father I said that.” Morgan giggles.

The inside of Morgan’s bedroom door has a poster of Iron Man striking a heroic pose on it. Tony knocks, and feels like shriveling up into a ball of shame when Morgan looks at him and her smile wilts at the corners.

Happy looks at him and arches a bland eyebrow. “Oh. You.” His tone is lukewarm. Happy looks past Tony’s shoulder to Rhodey. “So what’s the verdict?”

Rhodey nods. “He’s okay – just wants to talk.”

Rhodey and Happy – his two best friends – are talking about him like he’s a danger. To _Morgan._ Tony tries to muster up anger, but all he feels is the ball of shame growing larger and heavier in his stomach. How did he let it get so bad? Even _Morgan_ seems reluctant to look at him.

Apparently, Happy notices this, too, because as he gets up from the bed and puts on his shoes, he ruffles Morgan’s hair and tells her. “Uncle Rhodey and I are gonna be just right outside, okay?”

Morgan nods solemnly. “Kay.”

Happy clips Tony on the shoulder none too gently as he passes. “Don’t mess it up,” Happy warns.

Tony nods and swallows against the lump in his throat.

At last, the door shuts, and Tony and Morgan are left alone. Tony licks his lips as his mind draws a blank on what to say. Morgan’s no help. The little girl stares down at her lap, shuffling and reshuffling her pack of cards. Tony toes off his shoes and clambers ungainly onto the bedspread, folding his legs underneath him. Morgan peeks up at him through her eyelashes, then looks back down when she catches him looking back, folding and refolding the creases at the corner of a card.

Morgan’s brown hair is long enough to brush against her butt, unbrushed and still slightly damp from her bath. Pepper used to brush it for her, Tony remembers. It was their little mother-daughter ritual.

“Do you want me to brush your hair for you?” Tony offers.

Eyes slightly wide, Morgan only hesitates for a second before nodding. Tony retrieves the wooden hairbrush from her little pink vanity. Morgan shifts closer, turning so her back faces his front. Tony strokes a hand down the side of his daughter’s head and doesn’t bother suppressing a smile as she instinctually leans into his touch. He runs the wooden brush down the soft brown locks, gently tugging and untangling any snarls or knots. Morgan relaxes some more and inches closer to him.

He takes his time, until eventually he’s brushing just as an excuse to touch her. He sets the wooden hairbrush down, but instead of moving away, he takes a glittery pink-and-green hairclip and starts to make a crown braid. Morgan has moved even closer, one hand holding onto the fabric of his sweatpants.

“You missed the countdown.” Morgan finally breaks the silence, a hint of accusation in her sweet voice. “And the fireworks.”

“I know.” Tony checks to see if the first section of the braid is straight. His chest cavity feels like it’s filled with liquid hydrogen, like he’s moments away from shattering into a million frozen pieces. “I’m sorry.” He bites back the urge to say _I was busy_. It’s technically the truth, but it’s also the same excuse he gave Morgan when he missed her birthday and Easter… and Thanksgiving… and Christmas.

Unfortunately, Morgan more perspicacious than the average eleven-year-old. “You forgot again,” she says sullenly.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says again.

“You’ve been forgetting a lot of things lately,” Morgan remarks.

“I’ve got a lot of sh- things on my mind, that’s all.”

Morgan cranes her neck back to look at him, nearly dislodging her crown braid. Tony has to bend his arm to awkwardly salvage the last section of the braid. “Like Mum?” she asks.

Tony flinches. “Yeah… like Mum.”

He fastens the hairclip once he finishes the crown braid, and Morgan scoots over so she’s sitting on his lap. “Why were you and Uncle Rhodey being mean to each other earlier?” she asks.

“Well… Uncle Rhodey was mean to me because I was mean to you first… and I was mean because I’m a mean old man,” Tony sighs.

Morgan scrunches her nose up adorably. “You’re not _that_ old.”

“But I _was_ mean though. I hurt your feelings,” Tony says. Morgan makes a wet, sniffling noise. Her father pats her once on the head. “And I really am sorry, Maguna. I am so, so sorry. I’m sorry I forgot New Years and Christmas-”

“And my birthday,” Morgan chimes in. “And Easter.”

“Can you forgive me?” Tony asks.

“Only if you _promise_ not to do it again.” Morgan’s eyes are very big and shiny and wet. His heart squeezes painfully.

**_I made a vow._ **

**_You made a promise to Morgan._ **

“I promise, little miss.”

“Then I forgive you,” Morgan says, with a munificent little nod.

“There’s a hot air balloon festival tomorrow in South Carolina,” Tony suggests. “We can drive out, make a whole day out of it.”

Morgan’s eyes turn even bigger. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Really, really?”

“Really, really.”

“Oh!” For a moment, Morgan’s tiny adorable face lights up with joy, then something seems to occur to her, and her face falls into what would probably be skepticism if she were a bit older. “You won’t forget again?” she asks.

“I promise I won’t.” Tony smiles, even though he kind of feels like punching himself repeatedly in the face. “Consider it my New Year’s resolution.”

“Okay,” Morgan says trustingly, accepting it easily.

God, he really doesn’t deserve his little girl.

“Daddy?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you going to go away? Like Mom did?” Morgan’s voice is bright and brittle, like the thinnest layer of ice over a fast stream.

Tony jerks upright. “Now why would you say that?”

Morgan lifts one small shoulder – not even a full shrug. “Uncle Happy told me that sometimes, when you’re too sad because you miss Mom too much, you go into a quiet place inside you and you stay there for a long time, and that’s why you’ve been forgetting a lot.”

A rush of air escapes Tony. “He did, huh? Don’t tell your Uncle Happy this, but sometimes he’s pretty smart.”

“Daddy.” Morgan curls her tiny body closer to his, burying her face into his sleeve. “What if the next time you go into that quiet place, you stay too long, and you never come out again?”

Stabbing him with a rusty fork would hurt less. “Then I’ll never go to the quiet place again.” Tony hugs his daughter so tightly to him that he thinks it must hurt, but when he tries to loosen his grip, Morgan just burrows closer. “I promise, little miss, I’m not going anywhere.”

**_You made a promise to Morgan._ **

…

**2021**

The sky is blue and cloudless, the color of forget-me-not flowers. The grass is green and freshly mowed, dewdrops clinging to the leafy stems. The weather is mild. The breeze cooling. The air smells sweet and fresh, like grass and earth and the arrival of spring. A great willow tree grows at the top of the hill – so old that it towers over everything in the vicinity, its brittle boughs weighed down by masses of lance-shaped leaves. Resting beneath its shade is a marble rectangular slab, set into the earth, surrounded by rows of carefully cultivated, thorny blood-red roses in full bloom, along with delicate petals of mountain laurels in blushing pinks and snowy whites, filling the air with the smell of the perfume-like fragrance. Even the cut and gleam of the marble tombstone is beautiful.

Pepper is dead, and appears to be staying dead. The world should be black and cold. Nothing should be beautiful.

_Virginia Potts-Stark_

_Devoted Mother, Loving Wife, Loyal Friend_

_Should we lose each other in the shadow of the evening trees, I’ll wait for you.  
Should I fall behind, wait for me._

“Hey, Mom.” Morgan sets down her bouquet of dandelions against the marble gravestone. A golden-yellow silk ribbon ties the green stems together, and a few sprigs of white fluffy heads peek out from the bunch of bright yellow flowerheads. “It- it’s me and Dad… we’ve finally come to see you.”

Morgan opens her mouth, then shuts it again, lost for words. Gradually, her brown eyes fill with tears. Tony reaches out to his daughter, touches the side of her head, and Morgan starts to weep. She buries her head in his stomach. The twelve-year-old girl has gotten so tall now that she needs to bend down a bit to do it. Tony wraps an arm around his daughter’s shaking shoulders as she sobs.

Not for the first time, he second-guesses himself. Maybe he should have waited a little longer, until Morgan was a little older… but Rhodey and Happy convinced him – he’s waited long enough.

And he owes it to Pepper – to let their daughter give her a proper goodbye.

Morgan rubs her face into his shirt, using it as a rough and ready handkerchief and probably getting knot all over it. Tony rolls his eyes.

Morgan pulls away from her father, eyes red and swollen, swiping a hand over her nose as she sniffles. She wipes her sticky palms onto the skirt of her black dress, where the stains are barely noticeable against the dark fabric.

“I miss you, Mommy.” Morgan’s lower lip wobbles. “I love you three thousand. I-I’ll come visit again, okay? Soon.”

That’s as much as she can take. Letting out a choked sort of wail, Morgan ducks her head and flees down the hill.

Tony closes his eyes tight, and wrestles down the urge to punch the willow tree trunk – the last thing he needs now is a trip to the ER. He presses a button on his wristwatch, and a mechanical spider detaches itself from the watch-face – a round spherical body made out of nanobots that sprouts eight spindly legs. The robot spider makes an inquisitive whirring noise, blinking its single eye in a curious manner.

“Go after her, spider-ling,” Tony tells it.

Spider-ling makes an affirmative whirring noise, before leaping off Tony’s wrist and lowering itself to the ground with a spindly thread of webbing. Spider-ling scuttles over the grass after Morgan, and soon both of them are out of sight.

“At least,” Tony says to the headstone. “The next time I see Rhodey and Happy, I can have the satisfaction of telling them ‘I told you so’.”

He can imagine Pepper’s response, hear her voice and see her smile in his mind’s eye – relaxed and spontaneous and beautiful. _“Ah, the ‘I told you so’. Always a classy move_. _”_

“Well, I’m a classy man,” he says pompously. “Don’t be fooled by first impressions. Honestly, though, I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know what _they_ were thinking. I don’t even really know how they convinced me… something about ‘moving on’ and ‘saying goodbye’ and ‘closure’,” he says in an ironic tone. “They are so… it’s like having three children instead of one – Stupid. Delusional. Exasperating. Little children – Like the Buy 1 Get 2 free sales deal from hell. I think it’s pretty fair to say that that’s on you. The stupid part was referring to Rhodey and Happy, by the way. I mean, with our genes, I don’t think it’s genetically possible for us to have a stupid kid.”

Pepper doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“And I know what you’re going to say.” He scowls, and pitches his voice shrilly, “ _It makes them feel better, Tony_. So what? For how long? A minute? A day? Because I’ve gone through this song and dance before when I was a stupid little kid myself, and I know that when you lose someone, they leave a hole in your life – a hole filled with pain. And that hole, it doesn’t get smaller and it doesn’t get less painful, you just get better at ignoring it, at living with the pain and the absence. Because that’s what happens when you love someone and then lose them – you hurt forever. Morgan will have to face that every day, and I don’t know if I can help her with that… I can barely help myself.”

A leaf detaches from the willow tree above him and flutters down, landing on his left shoe.

“You’re dead.” His chest aches. His eyes burn. “Peter’s dead. Howard. My mom. And when you all died, parts of me died along with you – those parts of me are never coming back. Not now. Not ever. And I’m left behind. I’m always left behind… left behind with these expensive rocks.” He touches Pepper’s grave-marker, thumbnail catching at the V in _Virginia_ , and makes a face. “With a first name carved on it that we all know you hated.”

It’s a stupid joke. But he knows that if Pepper was here, she’d laugh. He imagines the sound of it filling his body with warmth and strength.

“That was me, by the way. So if you have a problem with your tombstone, then you can come here and tell me yourself.” His voice breaks. “Because it serves you right, doesn’t it? Because you shouldn’t have gone and died, you shouldn’t have-” He chokes on nothing, voice cracking like thin ice. Like Humpty Dumpty’s eggshell.

_Humpty Dumpty had a great fall._

_And no one could put Humpty together again._

_I’m losing it_ , he thinks hysterically. _I can’t do this without you, Pep. I want to be here with our daughter. I **need** to be here with our daughter, but there’s only so much I can do to help with only half of me here – because the other half of me is with you._

_How long do you think someone can survive with only half of himself? How long before they go insane?_

He looks up at the sky. He’s not wearing sunglasses, and the brightness of the sun stabs into his eyeballs like knives, but the pain helps him center himself. His insides feel like they’re expanding past breaking point. His misery will soon become too great to hold inside him, and his skin will shatter.

“Payback.” He smiles humorlessly, still looking skywards. “For leaving me to babysit the kids. Thanks for that, by the way. You owe me. Big time.”

 _“I miss you too”_ , Pepper tells him teasingly.

He closes his eyes, covering his face with both hands. He can still fell the sun beating down on him, feel the sweat rolling down the back of his neck, but the back of his eyelids is cool and black and underwhelming.

“And I-” He falters. “I owe you an apology.” He opens his eyes, lets his hands fall from his face and to his sides. “Rhodey was right,” he says to the black ant crawling over his shoe. “You _would_ have been ashamed of me, of how I was acting with Morgan. You would have given me a kick in the ass – Rhodey did that for you, by the way, so if you can hear me wherever you are, you might wanna think of sending him a heavenly gift basket – it’s only polite.” He runs a hand tiredly over his face. “I’m an asshole. God. I honestly don’t know why any of you stick around me.”

He crouches down, snaps off a rose stem. A thorn pricks his thumb and blood wells up from the small puncture. He swipes his tongue over it. The blood tastes coppery and lingers in the back of his throat.

“If we’d never come back,” he whispers. “You’d still be alive… you’d be alive… but we wouldn’t have had Morgan.” He smiles, and even saying it aloud feels like dying all over again. “I’d give a lot of things to have you back here with me, but Morgan?” He shakes his head. “She’s _everything_.”

A droplet of water falls onto the rose’s blood-red petals. It’s not raining. His fingers touch his cheek and come away wet. His vision is blurring. He thinks he might be crying.

“I love you,” he chokes on it. “I will love you until the day I die, and if there’s life after that, I’ll love you still. But you’re dead, Pepper. _You are dead._ You’re dead and I would give almost _anything_ to bring you back… but I don’t think I can. You’re dead, but Morgan’s alive. Our daughter is alive and she _needs_ me. She needs me now the way I needed you then.”

 _And it feels terrifying,_ he thinks. _I didn’t know it could feel like this, to be on the other end of it, to be needed like this. Was it like this for you, Pep? How did you cope?_

He’s on his knees, getting grass stains all over his pants. He touches the smooth cold marble of the memorial.

“If there’s any way,” he whispers. “Any way in the universe, I will find it – but I don’t know if there is.”

Later, in the car, he sits in the driver’s seat and looks back at the willow tree atop the hill, gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles whiten.

 _Am I doing this right, Pep?_ he thinks desperately.

Morgan sits in the passenger seat, seat belt buckled on tightly. Spider-ling scuttles up her arm to perch on her shoulder, rubbing its round body against her cheek. Morgan pats the robot spider absently, flipping through the stereo playlists.

“Is the Joni Mitchell playlist yours or Mom’s?” Morgan asks, fiddling with the volume.

“What do you mean mime or Mom’s? It’s our car. Ergo, it’s our music.”

Morgan pouts. She’s getting to the age where it’s stopped being cute and started being a little insolent. “Yeah, but who downloaded it.”

“I don’t know, Madam Secretary. We share these things. I don’t know whose is whose.”

Morgan grumbles under her breath, turning up the stereo volume. Spider-ling bobs its circular body to the music. It’s kinda cute. Tony takes one last look at the willow tree, then pulls away from the curb.

 _Okay_ , he thinks. _Okay. We can do this._

_…_

**2022**

The coffee shop is a rinky-dink, hole-in-the-wall place, with a crumbling stonework façade and a red-and-green neon sign hanging above the front door. The kind of setting where disgraced former superheroes can loiter around without anyone giving a damn.

Tony takes an empty seat at one of the small round outdoor tables – the table is tiny, made even more hilariously so by the hulking figure of Tony’s tablemate. Rogers is in a drab green plaid button-down the color of chunky vomit and a pair of slacks. His blond hair has been slicked back out of his face. His shoulders are slumped, pulled inwards like he’s trying to make himself take up less space. Large bags hang under his eyes.

Something about Steve reminds Tony of the way the blond looked the first time they met in Stuttgart – the super-soldier radiates a sort of _old_ energy, a melancholy that comes from knowing he doesn’t belong in the modern world. The look in Steve’s eyes is somehow _absent_ , as if he’s in two places at once, so wrapped up in his own sorrow and bitterness and misery that he resents anyone for trying to get him to focus on something else. Steve looks barely any older than he did fifteen years ago, fresh out of the ice – handsome and timeless and regal, like a statue people might admire from afar but never love.

Tony kickstarts the conversation with all of his habitual tact.

“You’ve looked better,” Tony offers. “Actually, you look _old_.”

“You don’t exactly look like a spring chicken yourself,” Steve retorts. His expression is inscrutable – he might be angry or sad or terribly in need of the restroom.

“Morgan was sick.”

“I heard.” Steve nods, turns the handle of his coffee cup in the ceramic saucer. The caffeinated beverage is a pale milky brown – Rogers must have drowned the stimulant with milk and sugar just like he always does. Tony shudders at the blasphemy.

“From who? Natasha?”

“Rhodes.” One side of Steve’s mouth lifts in a sarky half-smile. “I didn’t know you and Natasha were on speaking terms.”

“I didn’t know that Rhodey didn’t utterly hate your guts,” Tony counters.

Steve gives an ambivalent shrug of his shoulders. “Bronchitis, right?”

“Pneumonia,” Tony corrects, raises an arm and flags down the waitress – a chubby woman with wiry black hair, in a formless blue uniform and a short white apron.

“Don’t get the cinnamon date buns,” Steve advises. “Or the babka. They both taste like crap.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” The waitress, obviously overhearing Rogers, scowls at him something fierce. She whips out her notepad and clicks her pen, looking at Rogers like she’s visualizing stabbing him with it. “One coffee, please,” Tony tells her. “Black… and one grapefruit donut and a banana muffin. Thanks, sweetheart.” Tony waits until the waitress has taken his order and left before saying. “As if we don’t have enough people hating us these days. Don’t go picking fights, Cap.”

“I thought I’d try being honest,” Steve says, with all the savoir-faire and delicateness of a bull in a china shop. “I’ve been told by certain opinionated parties that it would be an improvement.”

“How’s that working out for you so far?”

“Hard to say.” Steve slurps noisily at his lukewarm, disgustingly sugary coffee. “Mostly, I just seem to be making everyone mad.”

“So… no changes there, right?”

“Not as such, no.”

The waitress returns with Tony’s coffee, black and steaming, the contents sloshing up and over and rim of the cup as she sets it down in front of him. Her name tag reads _Nikki_. Tony thanks her, and she leaves both men in a silence ripe with agitation. Tony adjusts himself in his seat, pushing his chair just a little bit farther from the table – the compact, squat little thing really isn’t made for two grown men to be crowding around it.

Finally, Rogers breaks the bubble of silence.

“I promised you an explanation.”

His voice is stolid and phlegmatic, but the loud rattle of his coffee cup against his saucer as he sets the cup down betrays his state of agitation and perturbation.

As always, the subject of _Bucky Barnes_ hangs between the two men like a loaded gun – potentially fatal for one party, easy to reach, and impossible to ignore.

Tony, for his part, is abruptly second-guessing his decision to agree to this asinine meeting. His feelings aren’t so much _mixed_ , as thrown into a blender with gravel and ice.

 _Why am I doing this again?_ He casts his mind back to the moment he made the decision. What was he thinking?

Tony drinks too quickly, and his steaming coffee scalds the roof of his mouth. His eyes water as a trickle of the bitter liquid drips down his chin. He dabs hastily with his napkin.

Twenty years of carrying around this anger inside of him, like a banked ember threatening to flare to an inferno with every stray spark. So much acrimony and enmity and animosity, for so long… and for what? Pepper and Peter died, and in the aftermath and the sheer devastating scope of the Snap, even his grudge against Rogers seemed trivial, a twopenny-halfpenny issue.

Tony wants to put this entire thing behind him once and for all. He doesn’t know how, but looking at Rogers, he gets the feeling that the other man wants the same thing.

“You promised me an explanation,” Tony agrees, taking a second, more controlled sip of his hot bitter beverage. “So. Explain.”

The waitress returns with Tony’s donut and muffin. He picks at the pastries, stomach rebelling in nervousness.

Steve can’t meet the older man’s eyes. “I didn’t care about you,” he says to his coffee cup.

Tony scoffs. “That’s a bit of a no-brainer there, Cap. I kinda figured it out myself.”

“No, you don’t get it.” Steve wraps both hands around his coffee cup. There’s a cracking noise and a fracture appears on the smooth ceramic surface. He hastily loosens his grip.

“I’m not paying for that,” Tony tells him. “Not a billionaire anymore, remember.”

Rogers’ eyes are tenebrous, clouded with sadness and guilt.

“When I told you about your parents this time.” Steve swallows. “I didn’t do it because I cared about you – I did it because I didn’t.”

Tony stares at him. “Come again?”

Steve starts speaking faster now, words pouring out in a torrent of flood, like a dam has been knocked down. “I didn’t remember. I didn’t know you were Iron Man. I just knew that for some reason, you hated me before you even set eyes on me – and I’ve met people like that before, and I usually couldn’t stand them. I didn’t feel like I had to choose between two of my friends – I could take Bucky’s side because I didn’t feel like I owed you anything – except to tell you the truth about your parents and the Winter Soldier, because it was the decent thing to do.”

Tony sets down his coffee cup harder than he means to. Coffee sloshes over the rim and pools in the saucer, staining the spotless ceramic. “It would have been the _decent thing to do_ the first go around too.”

“I told you.” Steve looks wretched and miserable. “I thought I was protecting you. I told you in that letter.”

Tony stares at him. It takes the older man a long moment before he realizes exactly _what_ letter Rogers is referencing. He feels so stunned – like he’s been run over by a monster truck.

_I guess I thought by not telling you about your parents I was sparing you, but I can see now that I was really sparing myself._

He thought that the last dregs of his anger at Rogers had run dry.

Well.

He was wrong.

Again.

“ _That_ letter? That _stupid ass-_ ” Tony snarls wordlessly, fingers curling into claws. He grits his teeth together. “You self-righteous piece of shit – you did all that and you have the _nerve_ to think you were _sparing_ me?”

“I was trying to protect you. I told you- I wrote you that letter-”

“You lied to me,” Tony deadpans, the bluntness of the statement making Rogers wince. “Bald-facedly. About my mother’s death. For _two years_ – I didn’t believe you.”

He burnt the letter, trashed the phone, cut off the metaphorical olive branch Rogers extended to him, gave up on trying to rebuild that bridge.

“Tony-”

“I can’t do this right now.” Tony gets to his feet so roughly that his knees bang against the table. Their coffees are upended, contents spilling everywhere, dripping over the edges of the table. His chair falls over with a clatter that draws the eyes of everyone in the vicinity. “I can’t even look at you.”

Tony feels himself trembling with barely leashed violence. If he doesn’t get himself out of here, he knows he will bring out the armor and reduce Rogers to a bloody smear against the pavement.

Rogers doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo, because when Tony steps away, the super-soldier’s hand wraps lightning-fast around the older man’s wrist. Tony reacts instinctually – nanobots flowing liquid-like from the arc reactor hidden beneath his clothes, over his chest and arms, forming a repulsor gauntlet and he aims point-blank at Rogers’ face. The repulsor whirrs as it charges up.

“Give me one good reason,” Tony growls, savage and guttural and vicious. “Just _one_ – and I will put a hole through your skull, see if I don’t. Go on then – call my bluff.”

“OI!”

It’s Nikki the waitress, wielding a tray like a baseball bat. She jabs one of the handles at them.

“Take it somewhere else, unless you two bigwigs would like to foot the bill for property damage,” She barks.

It’s like a bucket of ice-cold water has been dumped over them both – both men step back from the other, and Tony’s nanobots pull back into their arc reactor casing, leaving his arm bare and slightly chilly. He shivers, feeling a little clammy. He doesn’t know why he reacted like that. The other customers are watching them and whispering to each other, their malcontent and circumspection an almost palpable thing – evidently, public opinion of superheroes is still at an all-time low.

An old man who must be almost a hundred years old looks up from his newspaper, blinking owlishly from behind his bifocal glasses, which magnifies his eyes almost comically, almost owl-like. He has white hair and a receding hairline. He pulls out his hearing aid, wipes the device on his shirt, then puts it back into his ear. “Whadimiss?” he asks, with the sprightliness and liveliness of a man many decades his junior.

Nikki the waitress pats the old man on the head. “Nothing, Stan. Just read your paper.” The dotty old man goes back to his newspaper, and the waitress pins Tony and Rogers with a gimlet stare. “Well?” she asks challengingly.

Tony picks up his chair, and he and Rogers sit back down. The former billionaire holds out a fifty-dollar note as a tip. The waitress sniffs and walks right past him without looking at the cash, storming back indoors.

Tony thinks Pepper might like her.

“You’re unbelievable,” Tony tells Rogers.

“ _I’m_ unbelievable?”

“I thought we already established that.” Tony takes a bite from his donut. It’s delicious – still hot from the oil, the dough dense but still fluffy, the grapefruit curd filling tangy and sweet, the flavor bright and fresh.

“I’m not the one who nearly started a brawl for no good reason.”

“Au contraire, I think you gave me plenty of good reasons. You know what they say – every lame answer has an equal and opposite reaction.” Tony smiles, shark-like. “A repulsor to the face.”

To give him credit, Rogers doesn’t rise to the bait. He keeps his hands on his knees. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

“You’re always itching for a fight, Rogers.”

“I think you’re getting the two of us mixed up.”

“Got to say, I missed that giddy optimism,” Tony sneers. “You really think that after a chat, we’ll be able to hug it out by the end of the day?”

Rogers casts his gaze across the street, to a sports equipment shop. “No. No, I don’t,” he admits.

“Then why did you come here?”

Rogers’ gaze skitters back to the older man. “Why did you?”

“I asked first.”

Rogers shrugs. “Closure, I guess.” He picks up the stack of tissues and uses them to soak up the spilled coffee still dripping off their table. “I think we’ve passed the point of hugging it out… I think at some point, we both crossed a line, we both did or said things we can’t take back. The best we can hope for is to clear the air and then go back to ignoring each other in peace.” He wipes his hands with the tissues. “You can’t forgive, and I can’t forget.”

Tony gives him a blank look. “Forget what?”

A humorless smile curls up one corner of Steve’s mouth. Something hardens behind his eyes, like shutters closing. “Forget that you wanted me dead.”

**_No trust. Liar._ **

**_Why you and not her?_ **

The memory hits Tony, as cold and harsh as a blast of winter wind. He feels like the monster truck has backed up and run over him again. “I didn’t-”

“You did.” Steve sounds calm. He doesn’t seem hurt by it, or even angry – only grim and resigned. “You said it. I heard it – we all did. You can’t take it back. Maybe you only said it because I pushed you, or because you were grieving and lashing out – but you still said it… and I saw the look on your face, Stark. You meant it then. You meant every word. You meant it the way you never did, not even in Siberia.” Steve’s shoulders slump, like an anvil has been dropped on them. “And I won’t apologize for surviving.”

The banana muffin has been shredded into crumbly bits. Tony stares at his ruined pastry.

“I don’t know if I said it because I meant it,” Tony confesses. “I said it because I wanted to hurt you. That was all it was – I was just trying to hurt you.”

Rogers nods thoughtfully at that. “Were you trying to kill me and Bucky – that day in Siberia?”

Siberia – the minute details of that pivotal moment are so blurry now, overwritten by more recent, more traumatic memories. All Tony can really recall is the shock and the grief and the disillusionment, the fury and the betrayal and the _rage_ – then the blur of violence, the repulsors firing, the strength of Rogers’ and Barnes’ blows against his armor.

“Were _you_?”

Rogers shrugs again, lifting his broad shoulders, his hands tightening convulsively on his knees. “I don’t know.”

“Neither do I,” Tony confesses.

“We make quite a pair,” Steve chuckles dryly.

The former billionaire brushes the crumbs off his hands.

“I came here today,” Tony says slowly, words tumbling clumsily out of his mouth, jerky and spasmodic. “Because resentment is corrosive.” He nods, and his voice gains traction, grows more confident. “And I hate it.”

The tension drains out of Steve’s shoulders. “Me too.”

“I don’t like the person I turn into whenever I’m around you,” Tony goes on. “That bitter old man, so angry he could burn the world down and not think twice about it… that person scares me. I can’t help but wonder if things would be different, if Thanos wouldn’t have succeeded if I hadn’t held such a grudge and kept you guys out of the loop.”

Steve sighs, puts his elbows on the table. “I shouldn’t have lied to you.”

“I shouldn’t have told you I wanted you dead. It was a dick move,” Tony concedes.

“It was honest.”

“It was cruel.”

“I shouldn’t have abandoned you after the Accords. I should have stayed-”

“Yeah, and then Ross would have _arrested_ you.”

“I should have found a way. Maybe if I hadn’t left, you would have forgiven me. The team would have been together when Thanos came, and then maybe none of this would have happened.”

Steve’s veneer of composure is as thin as gauze – Tony decides not to rip it.

“That’s a lot of maybes.” Tony shakes his head dismissively, even as the white-hot lump of heated emotions in his chest cavity – the tumor of anger and bitterness he’s been carrying around inside him since Steve looked at him and in a Siberian bunker and said _yes_ – finally melts. “And you don’t know that.”

 _I could have forgiven you_ , he thinks as he looks at Rogers. _If you’d come back after the Accords, if you’d brought the team with you, because I was hurt and lonely and scared of what was coming, because Pepper left me when loving me became too much even for her to handle, because Rhodey was hurt and it was my fault, because Happy cut me off, because I still hated myself so much that I didn’t feel like a whole person._

_You had a window of opportunity then, when all of you could have come waltzing back into the compound and into my life, and I would have swallowed down all my pain and anger and defiance, I would have welcomed you back with open arms and taken you back with no questions asked._

_But then Pepper and Happy came back, Rhodey got better, and I got closer to Peter – and your window of opportunity passed by. I never felt alone or bereft, not with them. They loved me for who I was, not for what I could give them, or for what gear I could build them, or for how much money I could pay them. They taught me how to be a whole person. And the parts of myself that I stopped hating were the parts of me that were **them**._

_I could forgive you now, because you’re really sorry this time, because when you say you won’t lie to me again, you actually mean it. You and Natasha both. Because you lost almost everything – Barnes and Wilson and your on-again-off-again girlfriend Sharon (even though that relationship still creeps me out a bit if I think too hard about it). Because you’re miserable, and I remember the time I felt that miserable, and I remember when the people I love pulled me out of that rut – and how their love and loyalty and faith and patience were like glowing lifelines in the dark. Because you’ve suffered and you’ve paid, because we all have – and no one deserves to suffer and pay the way we have. I could forgive you for that alone._

_I can forgive you, but I will have to **hate** myself to do it._

_And I want better than that – I deserve better._

“Do you think that the reason I couldn’t forgive you for lying was that you left?” Tony asks frankly. What? He’s not being an asshole, he honest-to-goodness wants to hear the super-soldier’s answer. When Rogers nods, Tony can’t stop the snigger from escaping. “Sorry… but do you honestly think Pepper and Rhodey and Happy – do you honestly think they’ve never left me before? I’m an asshole, Rogers. A world-class dickhead. I was an irresponsible, temperamental, capricious, perpetually drunk man-child. I was forever leaving messes behind for them to clean up. And I _excelled_ at pushing people away – I’ve lost count of the number of times one of them has quit or stormed off on me, and that’s not even counting the time Rhodey beat me up at my own birthday party and stole my suit. You think I’ve ever held all the times they left against them?”

Tony shakes his head, running a hand over his face.

“I love them and I trust them and I know I can always rely on them – not because they’ve never left, because that’s a shitty performance indicator. I mean, they’re friends with _me_. That’s like being the President.” Tony touches his wedding ring and thinks of Pepper, thinks of _that’s like dog years_ , thinks of her beautiful face and kind green eyes. “But because they _always come back_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, watch as I butterfly away Loki and Natasha's deaths.
> 
> Author's house, author's rules.
> 
> Amended 12 June 2020: I just realized that I completely forgot about Pietro last chapter. I've fixed that mistake in Chapter 6. Pietro's alive. He's in bad shape after losing Wanda, and no one has seen him since the battle against Thanos. But he's alive.


	8. Natasha, Loki, Steve, Rhodey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration taken from Instant Family (2018):  
> 1\. Grandma Sandy: You get reminded what a sack of shit you are five times a day, after a while, you can't believe anyone could ever love you.
> 
> Inspiration taken from Doctor Who:  
> 2\. Last Christmas. 12th Doctor: There's a horror movie called Alien? That's really offensive. No wonder everyone keeps invading you.
> 
> As always I don't own anything.
> 
> Lastly, before you read Chapter 9, you MUST read the endnotes. Otherwise the omake in next chapter won't make sense.

_Is anyone home? This is Scott Lang. We met a few years ago? At the airport? In Germany?_

_Is this an old message?_

_It’s the front gate._

…

**2023**

_Tony dreams of running._

_He’s chasing something through absolute darkness. The thing – he thinks it might be a person – that he’s chasing is as agile as a deer, as swift as a leopard, darting around trees as tall as skyscrapers, always just out of Tony’s reach. It’s like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands. Tony lags behind, tripping over roots and stumbling into ice-cold streams, the strong currents buffeting his calves, almost making him lose his balance._

_He thinks he might be in a forest. Above, he glimpses stars, almost completely blotted out by the canopy of leaves overhead. Branches cast eldritch and sinister shadows. Large reflective animal eyes peer at him among the gloominess. The blackness seems almost like a physical thing – a solid, impenetrable mass pressing in on him from all sides._

_And still, he runs, pushing himself faster and faster. His arm darts out, muscles straining, fingers grasping –_

_It is day. Blackness turning to light like someone has flicked a switch. Tony is holding Pepper’s hand as they leisurely stroll through a misty landscape. His breathing is labored as if he’s been running. The wind tastes salty against his tongue, stings his eyes. He feels warm, foamy water wash over his toes. Soft, wet, crumbly sand clumps in the arches and the creases of his feet, sticking to his soles._

_He drinks in the sight of his wife. Pepper’s skin is the color of peaches and cream, dotted with freckles like chocolate sprinkles on a strawberry sundae. Her eyes are as green and glittering as emeralds. Her long hair flows down her shoulders in strands of red and gold and orange. She’s beautiful as an angel – timeless, flawless, remote._

_Pepper arches an eyebrow at him, haughty and impatient. “You took your time,” she huffs with a fond eye-roll. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Stark?”_

_Tony leans in close, whispers against the shell of her ear._

**_“I’m going to tear time apart for you.”_ **

…

New Asgard is… _not_ what Natasha was expecting.

 _Small_ is her first impression of the tiny Norwegian port town. Modestly sized cottages ring the stone dock, dozens more of the small houses jutting out from the gentle slopes of the surrounding hills. The brickwork of the jetty is worn down with age, patches of the stone walkway green and slippery with fuzzy moss. Fishing vessels are moored in the enclosed harbor, the still waters brown and murky with silt. The Asgardians are dressed in jeans and hoodies, thick jackets and baseball caps, keeping their heads down as they unload fishing nets and crab traps. They look entirely ordinary and also entirely browbeaten – just like everyone else on the planet. If Natasha didn’t know differently, she wouldn’t have guessed these people were Asgardians.

Getting out of the passenger seat of the car, she inhales the salty, fishy air, stretching out the kinks in her back and shoulders from the long car ride. She schools her expression, aware of the unfriendly and chilly eyes on them.

Bruce kills the car engine and climbs out of the driver’s seat, giving Natasha a knowing look. “Not exactly what you were expecting, huh?” he says.

“It’s… charming,” Natasha says mildly.

“It’s a fishing village,” Bruce points out frankly.

“It has its charms,” Natasha insists, taking his hand and linking their fingers together.

Bruce looks down at their joined hands self-consciously, as he always does whenever Natasha is affectionate in public. Natasha tries not to second-guess herself, but she can’t help the creeping misgiving that tells her that with one wrong move or one misplaced word, she’ll scare Bruce off with her big dreams of the future. An incident in the original timeline comes to mind, when she suggested they both run away together after Ultron, which spooked Bruce so much he stole the Quinjet and ran off into outer space.

As long as she’s known Bruce, Natasha still feels as if she understands so little about him. Even after months of dating, their relationship still feels as insubstantial and as flimsy as a glass sculpture, as if one blundering misstep from either of them could shatter it irreparably and send Bruce running back to Betty Ross.

 _Too old_ , Bruce said to her just a year ago, when Natasha broached the subject. _Too dangerous. Too damaged. Too **angry**_.

It was Tony Stark, of all people, who managed to smack some sense into them.

_“Do you think it was easy for me and Pepper in the beginning?” Tony asks, when he catches Natasha staring across the room at Bruce mid-conversation. It’s Christmas Day, and most of the Avengers (Steve wasn’t invited) are gathered in the Starks’ lakeside cabin. “Some stranger’s mark on my skin. Me being her boss. Iron Man. My multitudinous issues, and my… well_. _” He makes a sweeping gesture to himself. “My **everything**.”_

_“You two got there in the end,” Natasha says glumly, not even attempting to hide the way she’s watching Bruce instruct Morgan in decorating the gingerbread men. Despite his alter ego, Bruce has always been good with kids. It makes something in Natasha’s chest squeeze painfully._

_“No thanks to me. In fact, most of the credit goes to Pepper," Tony snorts. He sets down his non-alcoholic eggnog. The glass is shaped like a reindeer’s head, with two antlers on either side as cup handles. “Look, Natashalie, you had a front-row seat to my inglorious playboy glory days. You know how messed up I was, after Obie and Vanko and Afghanistan. Well… Bruce had it way worse than I do. He’s just better at hiding it.” Tony scowls. “When someone tells you you’re a sack of shit five times a day, eventually, you start to believe it. Eventually, you start to believe that no one can ever love you.”_

_On the other end of the kitchen, Bruce has gotten into what appears to be a fairly vigorous intellectual debate with Ho Yinsen. The two scientists are bent over a large sheet of gingerbread that was supposed to serve as one of the gingerbread cottage’s walls, and Ho Yinsen is writing an equation on it with white icing. Bruce shakes his head vehemently, crossing out something with green frosting. Morgan has wandered off to join Thor in demolishing the sugar cookies._

_“I suppose,” Tony speaks slowly, as if he’s rolling the words on his tongue, savoring the vowels. “The question you have to ask yourself is if you’ll regret it – not fighting for him – if you’re going to wake up one day, ten or twenty years from now, and reach across an empty bed, wishing he’s there.”_

_“He thinks he’s protecting me.” Natasha takes a generous slurp from her eggnog, also non-alcoholic, sadly enough. “He’s being stupidly noble about the whole thing.”_

_“You’re Natasha Romanoff,” Tony says simply. “You change his mind.”_

_Then he looks over at Bruce again and grimaces. Natasha follows his line of sight and has to bite back a laugh. While neither of them was paying attention, Bruce and Yinsen’s intellectual debate has gotten a lot more heated. Bruce has broken off a piece of icing-smeared gingerbread, repeatedly shoving it in his fellow scientist’s face; whereas Yinsen is wielding the white icing piping bag like a club._

_“I’d better stop them before they draw blood,” Tony says, not entirely jokingly._

Natasha shakes herself out of her thoughts, taking another look around, this time keeping her eyes peeled for a blond hair and a towering frame. “Kind of a step down from golden palaces and magic hammers,” she murmurs.

Bruce squeezes her hand, looking around with a sad, compassionate look on his face. “First they lost Asgard, then half the people. They’re probably just happy to have a home.”

The wind picks up, smacking Natasha’s braid into her face. She squints against the wind. “Where do you think-?”

“BANNER!” A roar louder than a car’s alarm. “WIDOW!”

“Never mind,” Natasha mumbles.

“IT IS SO GOOD TO SEE YOU!” Thor booms, laughing. He pulls Natasha and Bruce into a rib-cracking hug, banging their heads together.

“Thor, pal.” Bruce massages his head, wincing. “Nice to see you too.”

Thor has let his beard and hair grow long again, wearing them in dreadlocks. He’s in the largest, most neon orange lifejacket Natasha has ever seen. The seams of his XXXL T-shirt strains visibly as Thor swings a massive arm around Bruce’s shoulders, guffawing. The God of Thunder’s biceps are the same size as Bruce’s head.

“Banner. Widow.” Grinning broadly, Thor gestures ostentatiously to a dark-haired woman and a humanoid alien with blue rock-like skin, the latter carrying what seems to be a large purple boneless slug with mandibles the size of a large dog. “May I introduce to you my friends! Valkyrie, Miek, and Korg.”

 _Which is which?_ Natasha wonders.

“Hey.” The blue humanoid alien raises a hand in a wave.

“Hi,” Natasha says.

“So, what’s up?” Thor asks.

“We came to see your brother,” Natasha says.

“Oh, no,” Thor groans in the long-suffering manner of older brothers everywhere. “What has Loki done now?”

…

“You sure?” Bruce dithers on the Odinsons’ porch. “About speaking to him? Alone? That doesn’t seem very… strategic.”

“I know how to handle Loki.” Natasha smirks. “Although… I might have to resort to batting my eyelashes at him,” she adds teasingly. “Thank goodness you’re not the jealous type.”

“I mean, the Hulk has tangled with Loki before,” Bruce goes on.

“I want to speak to him,” Natasha says, tone droll. “Not flatten him.”

“Always good to have a Plan B,” Bruce reasons, eyes wide and earnest. “Loki _is_ an Earth-conquering megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur here.”

“Former Earth-conquering megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur,” Natasha corrects. “According to Thor.”

“Because Thor is such a reliable source of impartial information when it comes to his brother,” Bruce says with a sarcastic eyeroll.

“Bruce,” Natasha says adamantly. “I can handle Loki.” She grabs her boyfriend firmly by the shoulders, spins him around, and gives him a pointed push on the back. “Now go catch up with your bestie. Let me do my job.”

The front door is unlocked, and swings open without so much as a creak from its hinges. It could be a scene right out of a horror movie – right before the plucky female main protagonist gets herself _eaten_. Natasha doesn’t put anything past Loki.

_“You have a better track record at getting Loki to do what you want than I do,” Tony argues._

_“Are you referring to the time on the Helicarrier when he threatened to have Clint kill me?” Natasha asks flatly._

_“As opposed to the time he strangled me and threw me off a skyscraper?” Tony counters._

_“… Good point.”_

“I should’ve told Stark to stick it,” Natasha mutters in aggravation.

She steps over the threshold. No monsters lunge out of the darkness at her. The front door does not slam shut behind her and trap her in the house. The floorboards of the front hall do not open and swallow her up – like that one animated movie _Monster House_ that gave Lila nightmares for three weeks.

Animated movies. Dark stuff. And Natasha once thought it couldn’t get any worse than _The Lion King._ Nothing says being suitable for children than Simba watching his father Mufasa get trampled to death by a horde of stampeding wildebeest.

She finds Loki in the cramped living room, camped out in front of the TV, dressed in an ACDC rock T-shirt and form-fitting jeans – the kind of casual clothes Tony wears whenever he binges in his workshop. Loki has a pair of sleek silver-and-green headphones on his head, fingers working frenziedly over the game controller in his hands, utterly riveted by his video game – some sort of violent shooting simulation with a lot of ear-piercing screaming, blood, and gore.

Natasha supposes that without Loki’s usual pastime as an option, this is the next best thing.

Loki suddenly bares his teeth in a snarl, jerking his gaming controller in a litany of frenetic and violent motions. “Noobmaster 69,” Loki growls. “Yes, it is I – Loki Odinson, the God of Lies. Now listen here, you whining cunt, if you call me a dickhead one more time, I’m going to come down to that basement you’re hiding in, rip off your arms and shove them up your butt!” Loki sneers. “Oh, that’s right. Go crying to your puny father. Go on, you little weasel!”

“You really can’t help yourself, can you?” Natasha says, feeling her lips pucker with disapproval.

Loki keeps his cat-like green eyes fixed unblinkingly on the TV screen, utterly unfazed by her presence. On the screen, Loki’s avatar hacks apart a xenomorph-looking lifeform with nothing but a serrated knife and unbridled savage joy.

“When one goes cold turkey from being evil,” Loki drawls. “One savors life’s little pleasures whenever they come by.”

“You made a little boy cry,” Natasha deadpans. “That’s like quintessential comic book villain behavior. What’s next? Kicking kittens and puppies? Punching little old grannies?”

“I’ve never punched a granny before,” Loki japes. “What a fabulous idea though! I thank you, Agent Romanoff. I must try that out for myself soon.”

Natasha watches the xenomorph life-form as it unhinges its jaw, extending a tentacle-like object from its mouth opening. “This reminds me of the horror movie Alien,” she says.

“Humans have a horror movie called _Alien_?” Loki pauses the video game, turning to shoot her an expression of genuine affront. “That is _really_ offensive. No wonder everyone keeps invading you.”

“What a grave oversight,” Natasha deadpans. “I’ll have someone rectify that immediately.”

“How accommodating of you,” Loki says pleasantly. He turns fully to face her, crossing his legs and tenting his fingers – a classic thespian supervillain pose. If he had a beard, Natasha thinks, he’d be stroking it. “What brings you to my humble abode, Agent Romanoff?”

“We need your help,” Natasha says candidly.

Loki responds entirely how she expects him to – he laughs in her face. “ _My_ help?” He wipes tears if mirth from his poisonous green eyes. “You must be truly _desperate_.”

“I am,” Natasha admits, completely upfront. She lets her veneer of equanimity drop, lets Loki see all the desperation and hope that she feels. “There might be a chance we could fix everything. All the things that went wrong after Thanos got his hands on the Infinity Stones.”

The mirth drains out of Loki’s expression almost as fast as the blood drains from his face. His facial muscles have frozen in a grotesque, grinning rictus. He looks hollow-cheeked and skeletal, almost ghoulish, his skin waxy. When he speaks, his voice is barely audible, but Natasha feels each word like a screw ground into her flesh, radiating a kind of unanalyzable force.

“ _Do not. Say. That name._ ”

Every self-preservation instinct that Natasha has sits up at attention and begs her not to push. A rational, prudent, sensible woman would not keep talking.

Natasha keeps talking.

“Tony Stark has invented time travel.”

And just like that, she has him.

…

When Natasha finishes telling Loki their plan, the God of Mischief looks well and truly appalled. “ _That_ is your genius plan to save the world?”

“It needs a bit of tweaking,” Natasha says defensively.

“Oh, it needs a lot more than that.” Loki gives her a withering look. “In just the first ten seconds since I’ve known about it, I can already think of a dozen ways this could – and most likely would – go wrong. What would you do if you ended up stuck in the past of another timeline, for a start? What if you somehow make things _worse_?” Loki scoffs derisively. “Whoever came up with this plan, they’re obviously either desperate, have a death wish, or have absolutely no understanding whatsoever about what damage their blundering attempts to fix things could do to the flow of time.”

Natasha glares at him. After a moment, she sighs. “You sound like Tony.”

“I always thought he seemed the smartest among you heroes,” Loki sneers. “Who came up with this horrendous scheme?”

“Steve.”

“So which is he?” Loki asks curiously. “Desperate? Suicidal? Or ignorant to the point of stupidity?”

“A bit of all three,” Natasha admits.

“You’re doomed then,” Loki informs her.

“What if…” Natasha wets her mouth. The corner of her lower lip is cracking. She sucks the lip into her mouth, worrying her teeth into the skin so hard she tastes copper. “What if we had a second option?”

_“Hypothetically, what if the Infinity Stones **want** to be together?” Tony asks. He and Natasha are lying sprawled over the Avengers compound conference table._

_“Okay.” Natasha turns to look at him. Her eyeline is level with his ankle. Tony’s socks are pink and patterned with kangaroos. She doesn’t know whether he’s wearing it unironically, or as a joke. You can never tell, with Tony Stark. “I think this is your cue to get some rest. Clearly, this is a sign of way too many all-nighters.”_

_“Hey!” Tony slaps her calves. He sounds quite manic. “No, hey, listen. I’m being serious. Think about it – what are the chances of it, of four Infinity Stones somehow managing to find their way to Earth – to this, this tiny little backwards piece of rock. The Space Stone in the Tesseract. The Mind Stone in the Scepter. Jane Foster getting possessed by the Reality Stone. Strange and the Time Stone… how does that – I mean, how did that happen? How was it even feasible?”_

_His words make Natasha frown thoughtfully. A stray thought niggles at her. “The Scepter only ended up on Earth because Loki came looking for the Tesseract.”_

_“That – that is another can of worms entirely,” Tony says seriously. “How did Loki – and Thanos – know the Tesseract was on Earth in the first place? I mean, SHIELD kept its existence all hush-hush. Even Asgard didn’t know about it. Not Odin. Not the all-seeing Heimdall. Not Thor. None of them knew a whit about it. So I asked myself, what did Thanos have that Asgard didn’t?” He slams a palm against the tabletop, so hard Natasha feels it rattle against her spine. “Thanos had the Mind Stone.”_

_“You think the Infinity Stones can… what? Sense each other?”_

_“It’s the only thing that makes sense. Call it a connection, a bridge, a pathway, a spatio-temporal hyperlink, whatever. But if I’m right, which I usually am-”_

_“Get to the point, Shellhead.”_

_“We don’t need to find all six Infinity Stones in the past,” Tony explains. “We just need to find one. We find it, we bring it back to our time, to now – and we use it to call the other Infinity Stones to us.”_

_“There’s just one problem with that plan, Tony. The Thanos destroyed the Infinity Stones in our timeline.”_

_“According to who? To Thanos? Excuse me for not taking his word for it.”_

_“There’s been no sign of them, Tony, not for the past five years. Don’t you think we haven’t been looking?”_

_“An Infinity Stone isn’t just a source of ultimate power, Natasha. Each Stone is the physical **embodiment** of an essential aspect of existence. And the universe is nothing but cause and effect. If Thanos had destroyed the Stones – **truly** destroyed them, and not just returned them to their natural non-physical state or whatever he thinks he did with them – then the universe would have responded.” Tony pauses, then adds, somewhat ominously, “Somehow.”_

Natasha’s throat is dry from speaking so much. “Is it possible? Tony’s theory?”

“It has an equal likelihood of success as your Captain’s plan,” Loki declares. “But a lower likelihood of getting all of you killed in the process.”

“The statistics speak for themselves.” Natasha tilts her head.

“This is why you came to find me,” Loki says, low and satisfied. “This is what you want my help with.”

Natasha stays silent. She smiles, bland and insipid, inviting Loki to see whatever he wants to see in her expression, mirroring his posture.

“The first plan – you don’t believe it will work, or you believe it too dangerous, not worth the risk,” Loki almost purrs. He peers at her, green eyes jewel-bright, like a cat eying a mouse. “You favor the second option… but there’s one problem. Your Man of Iron, as erudite as he is, is still woefully incapable of dealing with Infinity Stones, let alone to the extent that he suggested. And so… you come to me – the man who once commanded both the Mind Stone and the Space Stone, who already knows how to navigate the link between the Infinity Stones.” Loki almost breathes the words, dark and gleeful, “You _need_ me.”

There’s silence as both parties observe each other. All cards are on the table now.

Finally, Loki reclines back in his seat, like a cat stretching to bask in the sun. “I’ll do it… on one condition.”

“Name it,” Natasha says brusquely.

“I do this… and my slate is clean.” Loki bares his teeth, more like a shark snapping its jaws together than a grin. “For New York.”

Natasha allows herself a small, smug smile – just the barest lifting of the corners of her mouth. “No.”

“No?” Loki’s grin falters, his wildfire-green eyes flashing dangerously.

“No,” Natasha says again, still wearing that same sly and superior smile. “But you’ll help us anyway – for Thor.”

_“You’ll have to convince Loki to help us," Tony tells her. They’re the only ones in the Compound mess hall, but still, they speak in low voices and bent heads. “Whatever it takes.”_

_“I can’t work miracles.” Natasha smacks her lips, clutching her steaming mug of coffee, black as her soul._

_“We can’t bring this plan to Cap unless we’re absolutely sure it’ll work,” Tony says, mouth a thin, grim line. “We get Cap on board the plan, and we get the rest of the team as well. They listen to him.”_

_“Steve isn’t unreasonable-” Natasha begins._

_“He’s willing to sacrifice **everything** to make things right.” Tony’s hands quake so badly his own black coffee sloshes over the rim of his mug, narrow dark rivulets staining the picture of the fat cartoon cat on the sides. “And that scares the **hell** out of me! I can’t sacrifice **everything** Natasha – I can’t afford to. My priority needs to be with the living – not the dead.”_

_“You talk as if you don’t want to reverse this as much as he does,” Natasha hisses. “As much as **I** do-”_

_“And the difference between the two of us and Steve, Natashalie, is that we have something to live for. But Steve?” Tony makes a queer lurching motion with his head. “Not so much. I have my daughter. I have Rhodey and Happy. You have Bruce and Clint. But Cap? Cap’s reason for living died years ago with Bucky Barnes and Peggy Carter.”_

_“Steve isn’t suicidal!”_

_“I never said he wants to die – I said he doesn’t have a reason to live. I’m saying that there’s a very fine line between willing to die for someone, and willing to fight to live for them – and I’m saying that I think Cap is on the **wrong** side of that line… and I’m not going to let him take the rest of us down with him.”_

…

_“I am inevitable.”_

_“And I’m just a kid from Brooklyn.”_

…

Every muscle in Steve’s body has turned to fire. Every bone in his body feels like they’re melting, liquifying, being welded together by a blowtorch – the wave of heat that washed over him when he Snapped his fingers an unendurable wave of agony. From his shoulder downwards, he can’t feel his right arm at all. He wants to scream, but he doesn’t have the strength to open his mouth.

There’s the sound of repulsors. Iron Man lands in front of him, holding onto Natasha around the waist. Natasha is weeping, face wet with tears, stumbling to Steve and falling to her knees in front of him. In the smooth and shiny surface of the Iron Man faceplate, Steve’s reflection looks distorted and watery, as if he’s dissolving slowly in a pit of boiling golden acid. His hands and feet actually _do_ feel like they’re being melted by lava. Every nerve in his body burns.

Steve tries to speak, and the pain in his body multiplies by fifty. “I don’t-” He coughs. “I don’t look _that_ bad, do I?”

Natasha shakes her head, her lower lip wobbling. “You idiot,” she whispers, anguished. A cut near her hairline is bleeding heavily. Her palm hovers over his face. She looks as if she’s afraid to touch him.

Then Sam and Bucky finally race to his side. Both men’s eyes are wide with horror and sorrow. Natasha, still crying, steps back and allows Sam and Bucky to take their place on either side of him.

“We won, we won… Steve, you did it.” Sam’s voice breaks. The Falcon turns to speak to someone Steve can’t see. “Is there anything we can do for him?

“You’re… a good man, Sam,” Steve says feebly. “But th-this one’s on me.” He coughs and swallows down a mouthful of blood. This is a pain worse than being dosed with vita-rays. It takes every ounce of strength left in him to turn his head, to look at Bucky. “Buck.”

“Stevie.”

It feels as if snakes are writhing in his esophagus. “D-Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.” Bucky’s voice is brittle. He leans down and presses their foreheads together. Steve can’t even feel it. “Gonna miss you, buddy.”

“Buck… it’s gonna be-”

Steve’s voice stops working –

_The pain is gone. He’s on his feet, in an alien and unfamiliar place. He looks down at himself – his body is unburnt, unscathed, as good as new. The floor is water, stretching out to the horizon. Every step he takes sends wavelets rippling, although the surface of the liquid feels as solid as stone beneath him. Nothing about this place seems… right. It’s almost illusory, as if his eyes are playing tricks on his brain, as if this entire landscape is a painting done in orange watercolors – a trompe l’oeil._

_Natasha, Sam, and Bucky are gone. He’s completely alone._

_“Steve.”_

_Or not quite._

_“It **would** be you,” Steve says._

_He never realized, or maybe he’s forgotten, just how beautiful Peggy Carter was – her brown hair in perfectly coiffed curls, long and thick and luxurious, that single lock of hair falling over her forehead. Her bright painted lips, as red as sin, as poisonous cherries. The way she walks, the slight sway to her hips that never fails to draw the eye. Her arching penciled eyebrows and her smoldering dark gaze._

_Peggy marches right up to him, expression stern. “You’re late.”_

_“I must have missed my ride.”_

_“I suppose better late than never,” Peggy huffs._

_“What now?” Steve asks, looking around._

_“Now…” Peggy takes both his hands on hers. “Now, I suppose we finally have that dance.”_

_“But Bucky… Sam and Natasha…”_

_“Steve.” Peggy moves closer, so close he can see every single lash, mascara clumping them together. “Do you trust me?”_

_“… always,” Steve says. “You’re my best girl.”_

_“Then come.” Peggy walks ahead, pulling him by the hand._

_“Where are we going?”_

_“Where else?” Peggy throws a look over her shoulder at him that manages to be both tender and exasperated. “The war’s over, Steve. You’ve fought long enough. We’re going home.”_

_“But what if-” Steve swallows convulsively. Peggy’s hand is warm and tangible, the only real and palpable thing in this Twilight Zone. “What if I don’t know where that is?”_

_Peggy squeezes his hand, tranquil and self-assured. “Then we’ll look for it together.”_

_That doesn’t sound too bad._

_“Together,” Steve agrees._

_…_

**Epilogue**

Tony has been to a lot of funerals in his life, each more emotionally exhaustive and soul sapping than the next.

Steve’s funeral is easily the grandest that Tony has ever been to. An ocean of mourners literally as far as the eye can see, all decked out in crisply pressed suits and somber ties and buttonhole flowers, black funeral dresses and white silk gloves and lacy hats. All the influential people in the world are in attendance – politicians and celebrities, world-leaders and military officers, ambassadors and elite businessmen. An entire greenhouse’s worth of mourning flowers has been draped over and heaped around the polished ebony casket – lilies and gladioli, carnations and chrysanthemums, roses and orchids. The iconic affair has a 7-figure bill footed completely by the US government, and the entire event is being broadcasted live across the globe – dozens of luminaries and panjandrums and what-have-yous who have never so much as met Steve before getting up to the podium and speechifying about what a great hero Captain America was.

Cap would have hated it.

After the casket has been lowered, Tony catches Strange’s eye, where the wizard is sitting a few rows over – sharp-eyed, hair greying, beard and mustache sprucely trimmed. Strange holds his gaze for only a moment, tilting his head to one side in the barest hint of a nod of acknowledgment.

Tony brushes his hand against Pepper’s waist. “I’m going to talk to Strange.”

“Are you sure?” Pepper gives him a percipient look. Whatever she finds in her husband’s face, it makes her nod, some of the disquiet in her eyes lessening. “Okay, you’re sure.”

Tony ruffles Peter’s hair, then Morgan’s. His two kids stand almost shoulder to shoulder – Peter’s a short sixteen-year-old, while Morgan is fourteen and has grown into the tall genes she’s inherited from Pepper. Morgan stays glued to Pepper’s side, the way she’s been practically since what everybody has been calling The Return. Peter stands between May and Ben, but the kid can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Morgan – the last time Peter saw Morgan, she was just a little girl, not a teenager.

Tony makes his way to Strange, nodding to any fellow heroes who glance his way. Thor, his right arm in a giant sling, Loki standing at his shoulder. The Pyms – Hank in a pair of shaded square sunglasses, Janet with her long hair streaming down her back like a silver banner. The Guardians of the Galaxy, uncharacteristically subdued. The Wakandan delegation – Shuri and Okoye with silver hoops around their wrists and necks. Clint and his family huddled close together, Laura smoothing a hand through Nathaniel’s hair. Barnes and Wilson, heads bowed together. Pietro with his sister. Nick Fury and Carol Danvers at the very last row, almost out of sight.

“Strange,” Tony says when he reaches the duo. “Wong.”

Wong, wearing a black formal Chinese tunic in lieu of a suit, immediately spins on his heel and walks away. “Don’t involve me in this,” he calls to them over his shoulder.

“I see Wong is still… Wong,” Tony says.

“Wong is ever Wong.” Stephen shrugs.

Tony looks around to check that they’re out of earshot of everyone else, before lowering his voice to whisper, “The Power Stone?”

“Back in 2014 – exactly where it belongs.”

“And the others?”

“In a place where no one will ever find them,” Stephen assures. “Trust me.”

“And should I?” Tony’s tone is as whetted as a blade. “Trust you?”

Stephen doesn’t look affronted. The wizard just sighs, completely unsurprised. “Ask,” he demands. “I know you want to.”

Strange is right. Tony does want to. “Did you know?” he asks. “The one shot we had, the one path to win this – did you see it happen like this?”

For a long moment, Stephen doesn’t answer him. The Sorcerer Supreme Stares at his fingers. They’re palpitating minutely, crooked and covered in silvery scars from his car accident and subsequent surgeries. “Someone had to wield the gauntlet,” he finally says. “Someone had to stop Thanos… and someone would have died. Carol Danvers could have survived it, but she rarely arrived in time to make a difference. Thor wouldn’t have survived a second time… In a different universe, I could be attending _your_ funeral right now.”

Tony gives a full-body shudder.

“Try not to think about it too much,” Stephen advises.

…

“A lot to be thankful this year,” Rhodey groans as he eases himself onto one of the porch swings.

Tony is pushing himself idly back and forth on the second porch swing. He stops to adjust the pillow behind him (blue, with cartoon rockets and astronauts planting flags on cheese moons) so that it better supports his creaky old-man spine.

This year’s Thanksgiving dinner has been set up outdoors, as it would be a feat of impossibility to cram the fifty-plus guests into the Starks’ lake house dining room. Multiple long tables have been set up on the freshly mowed lawn, draped in a marquee-sized Star Wars themed tablecloth, and are now groaning under the weight of giant bowls of five different types of salads (bacon with greens, cauliflower with grains in lemon dressing, pomegranate with wild rice, sweet potato with cashews, turkey with cranberries), two different appetizers (cranberry brie pastry tarts and candied nuts), mounds of mashed potatoes with plenty of gravy, two different casseroles (green bean and sweet potato), tureens of homemade orange cranberry sauce, mountains of perfectly seasoned stuffing, the juicy turkey glazed with maple sauce, heaps of macaroni and cheese, shepherd’s pie with plenty of carrots and peas and mushrooms – Tony has gorged himself to the point that he fears that when he gets up from the porch swing, he’ll start rolling like a ball.

The Parkers are here, of course, as well as Happy’s brother, Rhodey’s entire family (Papa Rhodes, Mama Rhodes, Nana Rhodes, Uncle Rhodes, Rhodey’s sister and his niece), Pepper’s eccentric Uncle Morgan, Yinsen, Harley Keener with his mother and sister. Most of the Avengers made it – Bruce and Natasha, Thor and Loki arriving with a dozen Asgardians, Clint’s family and the Maximoff twins, Nebula with the rest of the Guardians of the Galaxy tagging along, the Wakanda royal family with a few bodyguards, even Barnes and Wilson, although they look like they don’t quite know what they’re doing here.

“Here.” Tony pours a jug of thick green liquid into two glasses, nudging one of them (the one with the words _Drink Me_ ) to Rhodey.

Rhodey gives it a cagey look. “It’s not kale, right?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “It’s green apple… no, use the coasters.” The coasters say _Use Me_. “Pepper will kill me if I get watermarks on this table. Imagine it – Pepper Potts succeeding where Thanos has failed. What a way to go.”

Rhodey thinks about it. “That is… frighteningly plausible.”

“Right?”

Laura Barton is pregnant yet again. She appears to have taken the leftover mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and macaroni and cheese, mixed them up in a large bowl, and is eating the mixture like oatmeal. Clint watches her eat with an expression of nauseated fascination, making a face every time his wife takes a bite.

“You first.”

“Nah, I went first last Thanksgiving.”

“Fine. Me first.” Tony thinks about it for a second.

Fairly lights have been draped over the grove of fruit trees, wound around the trunks. Morgan is trying to climb one of the apple trees. Peter simply abuses his spider-power and walks up the trunk, waving mockingly down at Morgan as he goes. Tony wonders if he can achieve the same effect by inventing suction shoes. Thor hovers below Morgan, arms extended and ready to catch her should she fall. Loki waves a hand and his magic animates a string of fairy lights, which winds round and round Peter’s ankles like a very affectionate snake, or a very slinky dog.

“To Nana Rhodes.” Tony raises his glass in a solemn toast. “She’s gonna outlive us all.”

“Nana Rhodes.” Rhodey does the same.

“How old is Nana Rhodes anyway?” Tony asks curiously.

“No idea,” Rhodey admits baldly. “But I’m thankful for her stuffed turkey.”

“Her shepherd’s pie.”

“Her cranberry sauce.”

“Her casseroles.” Tony pauses. “Not the salads though.”

“Yeah, I meant to ask. What’s up with the salads?”

“Pepper insisted. Don’t tell her, but I gave all of mine to Gerald while she wasn’t looking.”

“Well, she has a point.” Rhodey smirks. “Think of your heart problems, Tones, and you’re not getting any younger here.”

“You’re older than I am, Honeybuns.”

“We’re getting off topic.” Rhodey clinks their glasses together. “To Pepper Potts.”

“To Pepper getting to celebrate our daughter’s fourteenth birthday.”

“To Uncle Josh,” Rhodey says roughly. “To my sister getting to raise her daughter. To the Rhodes’s spending Thanksgiving together again.”

“To Peter getting to grow up. To Ben and May being here to watch it happen.”

“To Happy getting his brother back.”

“To the Keeners.”

“To Asgardian physiology and Thor’s right arm.”

“To Loki – for actually pulling through and not, you know, screwing us all over.”

“To the rat that stepped on a button and pulled Scott Land out of the Quantum Realm.”

“To Steve Rogers,” Tony says, and meets Rhodey’s unblinking gaze. “I’ve no love for the man… but he’s the reason everyone we love is here today.”

They drain their glasses.

Pietro Maximoff is giving piggy-back rides to a laughing Nathaniel Barton, using his super-speed to whizz all over the place. Wanda watches them with a small smile on her face. The Scarlet Witch is still mourning Vision. But with her brother’s help, she’s coping. Somewhat.

“How long?” Rhodey asks.

“Not long.” Tony’s crow’s feet are etched deeper than ever. “Bruce told me. He was there when… when they prepared the body.”

Natasha and Bruce are sitting on the pier, toes dipped in the lake water. From the back, with the sunset silhouetting them, they look like a couple on a postcard – sweet and sentimental and in love.

“Funny thing is…” Tony runs his tongue over his teeth. “The funny thing is, Stephen Strange hinted something like this before.” He’s watching Rhodey closely, mentally noting every facial twitch. “I asked him about mine and Pepper’s marks. He said, and I’m quoting him word for word here.” He adopts a snooty tone and a snobbish expression. “ _Love can change a soul, yes – but so can hatred._ ” Tony winces. “Enigmatic… but kind of obvious, in hindsight. So obvious it’s kind of embarrassing.”

“Kinda,” Rhodey agrees.

The Guardians of the Galaxy and the Asgardians have started an arm-wrestling match that’s devolving into a free-for-all. It’s causing quite a ruckus.

“Knock that pretty boy on his ass, Quill!” Rocket hollers, even as the alien raccoon is lifted off his feet by the scruff of his neck and shaken like a ragdoll.

“Shouldn’t we-?” Rhodey begins.

“Nah,” Tony says easily, refilling their glasses with more chilled fruit juice. The ice is barely melted in the jug, condensation beading against the glass. “Happy’s got this.”

Happy Hogan comes marching up to the brawling horde with a hose. He turns the valve, and high-velocity, ice-cold water comes blasting out of the nozzle, thoroughly dousing the aliens. Tony and Rhodey watch in mild interest as Happy literally sprays them into submission.

“How long have _you_ known?” Tony asks.

“Long.” Rhodey sighs. “Since… since the first timeline.”

Tony’s brows knit together. “That long?”

“Remember the time after Ultron, when you took a break from the Avengers to try and fix things with Pepper?” Rhodey reminds him. “I worked pretty closely with Cap at the time.” He shrugs. “Walked into the changing room while he had his shirt off and recognized your handwriting.”

“And you… didn’t think it was something I’d have liked to know about?”

“Well, the big black _LIAR_ didn’t exactly help his case now, did it?” Rhodey says tartly.

“No.” Tony stares down at the bottom of his glass. “I suppose it didn’t.”

“Are you angry?” Rhodey asks, squinting at his best friend. “You don’t _look_ angry, but it’s kinda hard to tell when you get like this.”

“Like what?”

“Calm and rational… instead of… you know, all over the place.”

“I’m not angry.” Tony rubs at his temples, fingers kneading into his flesh. “Surprisingly.”

“He knew it was you after the Snap,” Rhodey says. “After you laid into him and called him you-know-what… he wanted to tell you, but I told him not to bother. I told him I thought you were better off without him.” He pauses. “ _Now_ are you angry?”

“I’m not angry,” Tony admits. “I’m relieved, and grateful… and guilty that I feel relieved and grateful.”

Tony finds himself staring across the lawn, to where Pepper is chatting with May and Ben. Pepper long strawberry-blonde hair has been pulled back from her face in a neat bun. She has on a cream turtleneck a bit loose at the collarbone, with a glass of red wine held loosely in her hand. She’s laughing, cheeks flushed. Tony looks at his wife and feels the colors of the sunset, the smells of the Thanksgiving dinner, and the coolness of the evening sharpening, as if Pepper’s mere presence has turned the world up to high definition.

“Don’t get me wrong.” Rhodey leans forward, resting his weight on his elbows. “If I thought Cap could have made you half as happy as Pepper did, I would have told you.”

“But he didn’t.”

“But he didn’t,” Rhodey agrees, eyes darkening. “All he ever seemed to make you feel was pain.”

“Fair enough,” Tony concedes.

Rhodey frowns then. “Do you wish things were different?”

“ _No_.” The response is visceral, instantaneous and adamant. Tony has never been so intransigent in his life. “No. Never. I wouldn’t give up Pepper and Morgan for anything in the world. I just… I wished we had learnt to trust each other… just once.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Dad!” Morgan bounces over, presses her face into the space between the balusters of the porch railing. “Nana Rhodes is bringing out dessert!”

Tony groans and slumps in his seat, patting his stomach, which is straining against the waistband of his trousers. “Oh, Maguna, I couldn’t possibly eat another bite.”

“But she made pumpkin bars!” Peter says, squeezing his face into the space in the balustrade right beside Morgan’s. Ever since his return, the two have been practically joined at the hip.

“Caramel apples!” Morgan chimes in.

“Pumpkin pies!”

“Apple cheddar pies!”

“Maybe just one slice,” Tony concedes. “After I change into a pair of sweatpants.”

“Easy there, old man.” Rhodey helps his best friend to his feet. “Carry on that way and you’ll put yourself into a food coma.”

“Again, of the two of us, which one is older?”

Nana Rhodes has apparently strong-armed all the Asgardian guests into helping bring out the trays of pies, dessert bars, and caramel-covered fruit. All the guests erupt into a standing ovation once Nana Rhodes leads the procession of Asgardians out of the lake house’s kitchen, all bearing heavily laden trays.

“God bless Nana,” Rhodey mutters reverently.

“Hey, Rhodey?”

“Yeah, Tones?”

Tony swings an arm around his best friend’s shoulders and nods at Pepper, whose caramel apple has slid off its stick. The redhead has to resort to catching it in her hands like a baseball, narrowly stopping it from hitting the ground. “I tore time apart for that woman,” Tony says. His smile is fierce and proud and glowing. He claps Rhodey on the shoulder. “No regrets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is technically the last chapter.
> 
> First thing's first, it's not explicitly stated. But what the Avengers did was they still time-travelled, but only to 2014 to get the Power Stone, because it's the least likely place they'll run to their past selves. Nebula still got captured. Thanos still attacked.
> 
> But Steve was the one who Snapped.
> 
> Then he died... which I'm pretty sure that a lot of you guys have already guessed.
> 
> Yes, I made it so Steve and Tony reconciled and put aside their differences... right before Cap snuffed it. How mad are you guys at me for it?
> 
> I'm still tagging this fic as a Happy Ending, because technically, what I did to Steve was essentially what his canonical happy ending was - to spend his retirement in domestic bliss with Peggy Carter - and I gave him that. Kind of.
> 
> Now that's over with, I'd like to apologize.
> 
> When I reread my own work, the impression I got was: "The first 4 chapters were great! But then the latter half? Not so much."
> 
> Well, let's call a spade a spade, not a gardening tool.
> 
> Halfway through this fic, I got lazy.
> 
> Because the plot of this fic was supposed to be entirely different.
> 
> Some of you might have noticed that the soul-marks thing came out of nowhere, right? It's a bit of a red herring? Well, in my original plot, it was supposed to play a large part in the ending.
> 
> By the way, congrats to Overworkedshippinginc for guessing Tony's soulmate right off the bat!
> 
> This was the original plot:  
> 1\. After Thanos Snapped, Tony would have made it back to Earth with Nebula, where he would have found out that Pepper was dusted.  
> 2\. Thanos Snaps for a second time, destroying all the Infinity Stones except for the Soul Stone, which returns to Vormir.  
> 3\. Instead of being killed off/dusted/whatever, the souls of half the universe would have just been stored in the Soul Stone.  
> 4\. The Avengers go to Vormir but they can't get the Stone. Because in MY headcanon, it's not the willingness to BE sacrificed that matters, but the willingness TO sacrifice someone you love. So even if the Avengers threw themselves willy-nilly, nolens volens, over the cliff, they still won't get the Soul Stone. Not unless one of them is legit willing to throw someone they love off the cliff and to their deaths.  
> 5\. They return to Earth. Steve tells Tony about his mark. They patch up their relationship. Eventually, they fall in love.  
> 6\. Then a few years later, Tony kidnaps Steve and brings him to Vormir. Tony reveals that, even as he was falling in love with Steve, it's all been part of a plan to get the Soul Stone and bring Pepper back since the beginning. He offers Steve a choice: If Steve is willing to sacrifice Tony, Tony will let himself be pushed to his death. If Steve isn't willing to do that, Tony will be the one doing the sacrificing. Tony, at this point, has been grieving the love of his life (Pepper) for several years, and has gone a bit crazy.
> 
> I scrapped that. Because it was a bit -
> 
> Dark.
> 
> Chapter 9 is an omake of the original plot - a snippet of the scene on Vormir.
> 
> Another way the story could have ended was if Morgan had been the one dusted, and the Avengers would have went to Vormir to retrieve the Soul Stone. And Tony and Pepper would have ended up sacrificing themselves to get their daughter back, Amy and Rory style (NewWho fans who have watched The Angels take Manhattan, you know what I'm talking about!). The story would have ended after a scene years later, of a grown-up Morgan paying her respects and laying flowers over her parents' grave/memorial.
> 
> But that didn't happen either.
> 
> Thank you, to those who stuck with me this long. And let me know what you think!


	9. Snippet (Alternate Ending)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you who like to skip to the ending of every story before you read it (and I know, because I'm one of those readers), at the very least, you have to READ CHAPTER 8's ENDNOTES for this to make sense.
> 
> Again. Unlike canon, I'm writing with the assumption that to get the Soul Stone, it doesn't matter how willing you are to get sacrificed. What matters is that you have to be willing to do the sacrificing (like Thanos and Gamora). Under these same rules, what Clint and Natasha did in canon movie would not have worked in my fic.
> 
> Just something that got stuck in my head. Don't take this too seriously.
> 
> Enjoy.

**Omake**

Regaining consciousness is slow-going.

Steve feels the cold first – the bitter, frigid gale cutting into his skin like icy knives. He’s lying on his back on a craggy surface, a jagged rock digging into the base of his spine. The air is frosty enough to make his lungs burn. It’s snowing as well, he can tell by the smell – clean and crisp and nippy. He can feel the wet spots of snowflakes melting on his scalp, numbing his nose and cheeks, soaking through the material of his clothes.

He opens his eyes to see a vast expanse of purple-blue gradient sky.

_I know this place._

He’s uninjured. But his shield is nowhere to be seen, and someone has changed him out of his uniform and into civilian clothing.

That doesn’t bode well.

The last thing he _does_ remember –

“Steve.”

_Tony._

He jackknifes upright.

Tony is slouched against a frost-rimed outcropping of rock. He’s not wearing his Iron Man armor, although the triangular arc reactor sits in the center of his chest, giving off blue light as cold as the snow flurrying down all around them. His already greying hair is white with snow. He’s shivering in the raw climate, lips tinted blue.

“This is… why are we…?” Steve scrambles to his feet. “How did we get here?”

Tony doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look at the super-soldier. Tony stares out over the cliff edge. Finally, he says, “So… this is Vormir.” Tony’s shoulders are slumped, drawn inwards to his chest. His posture screams _defeat_ and _resignation_. “Gotta say… not what I was expecting. With the way you and the team all talked about it… I mean, I expected it to be a wasteland, but it’s not – it’s actually sort of beautiful.”

The one time Steve and the rest of the Avengers were on Vormir, they hadn’t actually been all that interested in taking in the sights. With Tony in the hospital, half their members dusted, and most of the Infinity Stones destroyed by Thanos… they were all drawn to Vormir like flies to honey, moth to a flame, following the energy signature of the Soul Stone – the only Infinity Stone that still existed in the universe, gearing up for another fight, steeling themselves to do whatever it took do get everyone they lost back.

But the price was too high, and Earth’s Mightiest Heroes returned, empty-handed, another failure notched in their bedpost.

 _Something is wrong,_ he thinks. The smooth, liquid cadence of Tony’s words makes his hackles rise, the way it hasn’t since they buried the hatchet years ago.

“Of course,” Tony goes on conversationally. “I suppose the Voldemort reject playing tour guide might be hurting the ratings. Hey, you ever notice how many supervillains don’t have a nose? Or go around in funny colors?”

“You spoke to Schmidt?” Steve’s eyes dart all over the clifftop for a flash of red. He feels naked without his shield.

“He’s not here,” Tony volunteers, watching him with an indecipherable look in his dark eyes. “I sent him away.”

“Tony.” Steve touches the older man’s shoulder, and he barely reacts, but starts resisting when Steve grabs his arm and starts pulling him away from the cliff-face. “We need to find a way off this planet. If it’s aliens… or the surviving Children of Thanos-”

“No.”

Steve finds himself yanked to an abrupt stop. He turns and stares. Nanites are crawling out of the arc reactor, flowing to cover Tony’s torso and arms, the wet sheen of liquid metal forming gauntlet and repulsor – like caterpillars hardening into chrysalis shells.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Tony says flatly.

Steve can’t read Tony’s expression. The older man might as well have his helmet on for all that he’s emoting.

“How did we get here?” Steve asks slowly.

“I brought us,” Tony says simply.

A sense of disquietude rises up inside Steve, like gorge. He feels like a lab rate in an experiment, wandering through an infinite maze, bumping into dead ends, scampering in circles, skittering face-first into walls. Poor, witless, lumbering Steve – forever unable to see the big picture, always a pawn in someone else’s chess game.

Tony tilts his head to the side, regarding him with what appears to be mild interest. “Don’t tell me you haven’t put it together by now,” he murmurs. “You’ve always been quick on the uptake, Steve.”

“Tony.” Steve’s voice is hoarse. “What have you done?”

Tony’s dark eyes are full of sadness. “You never asked me,” he says, voice soft and barely audible. The nanites withdraw, baring the fingers of his left hand, and the gleaming gold ring sitting on his fourth finger. “All those years together, and you never asked me why I never took my wedding ring off.” Tony presses the back of his hand against his mouth, kisses the gold band tenderly. “It’s because I never gave up on Pepper.”

“I’m your soulmate,” Steve says.

“Pepper is my wife,” Tony retorts hotly.

 _Pepper **is** my wife. _Not _was._ Is. It’s how Tony always speaks of Pepper, years still after the Snap – in the present tense, as if Pepper Potts has only popped off to the convenience shop for milk and eggs and would be back at any moment. Even the nights Steve and Tony spent together were always in the Avengers compound – never in the lake house, never in the bed Tony and Pepper shared together, never in the home he built for her.

“We agreed.” Steve mentally applauds himself for holding onto his composure, even though he does it by the skin of his teeth. Betrayal is not a foreign experience for him – but it had never been this _personal_. “ _You_ agreed, I remember. All of us. Years ago. The Soul Stone’s price was too high.”

“It was.” Tony nods. “It was too high then. I wasn’t willing to sacrifice anyone I loved.” He looks at Steve, who recognizes the look in Tony’s eyes and wishes he doesn’t _._ “As of very recently, that changed.”

It’s so very like Tony Stark to approach this entire situation like one of the logical reasoning quizzes Morgan likes to solve.

_Question: If you can only get the Soul Stone by sacrificing someone you love, but you’re not willing to sacrifice anyone you love right now, how do you get the Soul Stone._

_The right answer is: You choose to love someone you **are** willing to sacrifice._

It takes a certain kind of cold-bloodedness, a specific type of _ruthlessness_ , to do this – to volitionally and willfully choose to love someone, all the while planning their premeditated murder several years down the line.

“We don’t trade lives,” Steve says hollowly.

“Yeah.” Tony scoffs dismissively. “How’s that working out for you?”

“It would’ve been smarter to just drop me off the side of the cliff while I was unconscious.”

“It would’ve been,” Tony agrees. “But I wanted to give you a choice… and I wanted to tell you that…” He swallows. “… that I love you – just once.”

“You’ve said that before,” Steve reminds him.

“I never meant it those times.” Tony runs a hand over his face. “I mean it now.”

Rage, locked tight behind Steve’s teeth. “Who’s the liar now?” He chuckles mirthlessly, and takes a savage pleasure at the other man’s flinch. “What choice?”

Tony doesn’t answer him. The older man wanders back to the cliff’s edge – so close the toes of his shoes stick out over open air. He doesn’t look at Steve, doesn’t even make the effort to restrain him, and yet Steve finds himself rooted to the spot, reluctant to leave. Except Tony, the goddamned bastard, must know that Steve _can’t_ leave now – not when there’s the most infinitesimal, most nanoscopic chance of reversing the Snap, of getting everyone they lost back – Bucky and Sam and Wanda and everyone else.

Tony has his armor. Steve has nothing. A single blast of Iron Man’s repulsors can blow a hole clean through steel-reinforced concrete. Death… Steve isn’t afraid of dying, but the thought of dying in _this_ way, the thought of dying at the hands of someone who lied to him and manipulated him, who kissed Steve goodnight just yesterday –

“One way or another, Morgan will have her mother back.” Tony’s teeth are chattering. From distress or cold, Steve wonders. “One way or another, one of us will be walking away from this with the Soul Stone… but who that person is?” Tony shrugs effetely. “That’s up to you.”

Steve’s mental viewpoint flips so unexpectedly that it gives him whiplash. All of a sudden, he’s aware of how close Tony is standing to the precipice of the cliff, teetering on the soles of his feet, leaning marginally forward, as if preparing to jump – a baby bird getting ready to take its first flight.

“Tony.” Steve takes a half-aborted step towards the other man, hand raised, palm forward.

Tony laughs, a wild and half-crazed sound. “I’m not going to _jump_ , Steve. The sacrifice wouldn’t work like that.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I know you love me.”

Tony’s breath mists in front of his face. And Steve… he doesn’t know what to think. _Does_ he love Tony? He must. Of course, he must. Not the same way he still loves Peggy, but if he didn’t love Tony, his duplicity and his deceit wouldn’t hurt so much, wouldn’t feel like needles shredding his heart into pieces, wouldn’t make him so _livid_.

“Intentions.” Tony rolls the word around the inside of his mouth, runs his tongues over his teeth, and grins macabrely. Steve hardly recognizes him. “Sacrifice. These two things matter with the Soul Stone. Thanos got the Soul Stone because he was willing to sacrifice someone he loved. Because he was willing to give up the life of the only person he _ever_ loved, even if it meant cutting his own heart out in the process. It’s not the sacrifice itself that matters to the Soul Stone. It’s the _intention_ to give up someone you love forever.”

“And that’s what I am?” Steve asks in disbelief. “Someone you love?”

“That was the goal,” Tony says, and Steve’s blood turns to ice. Tony’s expression is the same one he wore when he saw Steve’s soul-mark for the first time, when he said _“There must be a reason why we’re a marked pair”_ , when he surged up and kissed him. Steve hadn’t questioned it, had just been so happy that he was given a second chance. “If I wasn’t sure that I love you,” Tony says slowly. “We wouldn’t be here right now.”

Steve shifts his body, bringing up his arms. Ready to run. Ready to _fight._ “ _Then why_.” His voice is as rough as gravel. “ _Am I still alive._ ”

“You deserved a choice.” Tony lifts his chin.

There’s a glimmer of vulnerability in his eyes, there and gone before Steve can even be sure it’s not a figment of his imagination. Tony has not and has never been _vulnerable_ with Steve. There is no room for softness in their relationship. All of Tony’s vulnerability and softness – the best parts of him died a swift and painful death along with Pepper Potts years ago, leaving Steve with the dregs of a broken, bitter man half-insane with grief and struggling to hold himself together, for the sake of his and Pepper’s daughter.

“It’s only fair.” Tony shrugs.

He’s turned so his back is facing the ravine, arms limp at his sides, swaying slightly on his feet, muscles lax and unresisting. All it would take is one shove to the chest and the older man would topple over, plummeting down to the bottom of the canyon so very far below.

The implication is obvious.

“I can’t-”

“ _I_ can,” Tony says, velvety soft, like a knife sheathed in priceless sandsilk. “Steve… if you won’t, I _will_.” It’s a plea and an ultimatum and a threat all rolled into one.

“You have a daughter.” Steve is breathing heavily. “I’m not going to make her an orphan! Do you _want_ to die that badly?”

“What’s death?” Tony asks philosophically. “Thanos once told me that death was a mercy.”

“You’re listening to _Thanos_?”

“Tell me you never once wished that you and Barnes could have swapped places,” Tony says, eyes dark and steely and cruel. “Tell me you never once wished that it was you who died in his place. Go on, then. _Lie_.” Tony shakes his head. “Dying is _easy_ , Steve. It _is_ a mercy. It’s _living_ with death that’s the difficult part. And I love you. I don’t want you to die. I love you just enough to die for you… but not enough to live without Pepper.” Tony shakes his head. “I can live without you. I lived _my entire life_ with Pepper, and _without you_. I can live with your death on my conscience.” An acrimonious smile tugs at his mouth. It’s an ugly, hostile thing. “I’ve lived with worse.”

Tony’s tone is resolute. He means it. Every word. Utterly committed to going through with this.

Steve is not like Tony. The number of people that Tony loves can be counted on two hands, and the number of people that he trusts can be counted on one. Tony, Steve knows, _ranks_ his love into two categories – those he can live without, and those he _can’t_. Tony will protect the latter with everything he has, even if it means sacrificing the former to do it – like amputating a limp to stop an infection from spreading to the lungs and heart – giving up the people he can live without to save the people he can’t. Steve doesn’t know if Tony has always been like that, or if all the betrayals in his life have driven him to this point.

Steve doesn’t want to die, but as furious as he is right now, he doesn’t know if he has it in him to kill Tony.

He wonders what Tony expects him to do. He wonders if this was Tony’s plan all along – to blackmail Steve into laying down on the wire and let half the universe crawl over him.

He wonders what will happen if he calls Tony’s bluff. If Tony will summon the suit and turn the repulsors on him, will sending him falling to his death.

 _I love you,_ Tony said to him.

 _But not enough,_ Steve knows now. _Not enough to **matter** , or to change your mind. Less than you love Morgan or Rhodes or Hogan, otherwise they’d be here and not me. And far, **far** less than you love Pepper, soulmates and soul-marks be damned._

Tony meets Steve’s eyes. His eyes are dry, remote and yet the same time feverish with conviction and a sort of voiceless, stifled emotion – as if he’s screaming on the inside, as if he’s been screaming for years and Steve is only now hearing him. “Your choice.”

Steve is –

He doesn’t know what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all you subscribers for sticking with me. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Right now I'm nursing an idea for a new fic: On December 16, 1991, what if the Winter Soldier killed Peggy Carter as well as the Starks.
> 
> It'll be a Sharon & Tony friendship fic, still very much in the planning stage.


End file.
